


The Stars Are Made of Tin

by deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babylock, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kidlock, M/M, POV Multiple, Parentlock, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet/pseuds/deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Side by side, the two men lay with eyes to the ceiling and a world of unspoken sentiments deafened the room. Once again they sat at the precipice of baring their souls, but neither would leap first into the abyss unknown below. For what can be lost that has not been risked?"</p><p>In which Mary dies during childbirth and Sherlock has to help John cope with loss and single-parenthood, all the while coming to terms with an undeniable truth: he is desperately, earth-shatteringly in love with one John Watson.</p><p>(Angst with eventual fluff, I swear.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth?” Sherlock blinked into awareness. He’d been lost inside his mind, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“S’Mary...” John broke off, pausing momentarily, pursed his lips and cleared his throat. “Her middle name.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock nodded once and eyed John, narrowing his gaze fractionally. 

It was the first time John had said Mary’s name in almost a week, a fact not lost on Sherlock in the slightest. Mary went into hospital at only 34 weeks, having developed severe preeclampsia. After a great deal of complications during an emergency c-section, she died before setting eyes on the baby. John had not been allowed to stay with Mary during the surgery and she died in a room of strangers. The baby had been in the NICU since and, as best the doctors could predict, would likely remain there for another 4-6 weeks at least. 

For his part, Sherlock had stayed near John, quiet and observant. He kept his distance, but remained in eyesight or earshot during the days and in the evenings retired to Baker Street. But after nearly a week of almost complete silence, John was obviously in need of help which Sherlock was unsure how to provide. He looked gray and miserable and thoroughly exhausted mentally and Sherlock was feeling a bit out of his depth.

“You need a shower. And a proper bed,” Sherlock interjected into the rapidly returning silence.

John looked up in surprise. “Sherlock, I can’t just leave. What if…”

 _He’s frightened._ Sherlock mentally deduced. _Can’t bring himself to leave the baby, much less return to his empty house._

“John,” Sherlock began as gently as he could, “you are her father, not her doctor. The staff here has been acceptable thus far and I’ll not let anyone incompetent near Elizabeth while you are away. Have a shower, a kip, and a cup of tea at Baker Street and return to us in a few hours.” 

John made a face at Sherlock that he couldn’t quite read, but after a moment John’s shoulders slumped slightly in clear resignation.

“Right, then. I’ll be back shortly,” John said with finality, casting a long look at Elizabeth before marching towards the door. The man looked as though he were plunging headlong into battle.

Sherlock sighed deeply as John disappeared down the hall. He had gotten little sleep as well. His evenings had been spent deep in research, poring both over scholarly articles and, the more practical method, forums and chat rooms. How to help a friend cope with loss. The mortality rate of infants born prematurely. NICU procedures and policies. Attachment theory. The importance of bonding with babies and how best to bond with premature babies. He’d lost himself for hours and hours, forgoing sleep in favor of all things neonatal. Each night Sherlock had returned to 221B and typed up the mental notes he kept about Elizabeth’s progress. 

_Elizabeth._ He closed his eyes and deleted “Baby Watson”, replacing it with “Elizabeth Watson” and tucked the new name securely in his Mind Palace where it seemed to fit quite perfectly.

Sherlock stepped closer to the sleeping baby covered in tubes and watched over her. 

_Truly remarkable. Born a tiny soldier._ Sherlock considered his research findings and the risk of developmental delays in premature babies. The benefits of speaking to Elizabeth soothingly were noteworthy.

“He-hello, Elizabeth," Sherlock began, glancing sidelong about the room to ensure their privacy. A bit more confident, he continued, "I'm your..." _What? Father's friend? Uncle? Anything? Nothing?_ "I'm Sherlock," he finished, brows stitched together as he searched for an appropriate topic of conversation. 

Sherlock seated himself in the chair near Elizabeth's bed and continued with a heavy exhale. "What will we do about your father, little one?” He fidgeted and blinked uncomfortably. "Your mother was very clever," he admitted, a bittersweet, half-smile on his lips. "I fear I’m a poor substitute for a comforting presence for anyone. She would know what to do.” Sherlock swallowed as he thought of Mary, so lovely, and now gone almost as spontaneously as she had appeared in his life. His eyes scanned Elizabeth's fragile form, considering for the first time that Mary had not even held her. And John... John who hadn't even been allowed near his dying wife, a doctor himself, yet helpless in the scenario. Had John made arrangements for a funeral? Doubtful. This was the first time he’d left the hospital. Sherlock wasn’t even certain John knew what the date was. He was a wreck.

“Right,” Sherlock continued in solemn, straight-faced whispers to Elizabeth. “We’ll have to set him straight. Your father is the bravest man I know and has endured a great deal more than I care to discuss with you at the moment, some of it at my hand, I'm afraid. Don’t you worry. We can manage this.” Sherlock wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore.

Elizabeth made a soft gurgle in her slumber, almost inaudible over the whirring and beeping of her machines, and Sherlock leaned forward from his chair, bent at the knees, to stare at her delicate features. A small smile cracked his stoic mask as he gently slipped his index finger into her tiny hand and he thought that she must certainly be the most beautiful baby in the history of babies. Yes. In fact, he had no doubt.

\---

When John reached the flat he was practically on auto-pilot. Money was handed to a cabbie, a cab door opened and closed, and he was at the bottom of 221B's stairs but he couldn't recall placing his feet on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was then speaking to him but he didn't remember her appearing. He nodded at a sentence ending with "cuppa" and took the stairs slowly, one at a time. Once inside the flat, it took all John's will not to stretch out on the sofa and sleep until he awoke from what he still thought might be an awful dream. Instead he padded towards the bathroom and started the shower. 

The steam billowed and the temperature nearly scalded his body, but it might have been the first feeling he'd experienced in the numbness of the past few days, so he accepted the punishing water as it poured over him. John scrubbed almost violently at his skin and shampooed his hair, scratching at his scalp frustratedly. He stood under the falling water as it prickled heat over his skin and shampoo rinsed from his hair as suds ran to his toes.

 _Why me?_

And there it was. The self-pitying thought John had worked diligently not to materialize, but it was out there now and he was overcome. He clenched his fists tightly and thrust them both forward, pounding the shower wall in anger, the tears he'd fought off finally breaking free of him in unrelenting waves of sadness. John pressed his forehead against the shower wall, a cool surface against the heat of his body, and sobbed in earnest. Inhuman and ugly noises tore from his throat until it was raw. The life he desperately wanted escaped through the drain with his damned, bloody tears and Mary, his Mary, was truly gone.

When John had voided his tear ducts of a lifetime's worth of sorrow, he left the shower and toweled himself off. A new, unopened toothbrush and a razor lay waiting on the counter and John thought it would be rude to use Sherlock's new toothbrush, but he desperately needed to clean his teeth. 

_Like he's never used any of my things._ John reached for the toothpaste.

He wiped the condensation from the mirror and put the razor to his stubbled face. 

_I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes._ John closed his eyes as he thought of Mary's smile and her teasing. How would he ever feel better again? He grimaced and raised his chin a bit, squaring his shoulders and stiffening his back. There was no time for this. He had a baby to get back to. Just a quick cup of tea and he'd skip sleeping and head straight back to the hospital. No need to wallow about in all this self-pity. He'd had his cry, and now it was time to be a soldier again.

Freshly shaven, towel draped about his waist, John stepped into the hallway and called out for Mrs. Hudson. She wasn't around, but a cup of tea and some biscuits awaited him on the coffee table. He thanked God for little miracles and not-housekeepers as he scooped up a biscuit. That's when John noticed the bag with his name on it. Tea in hand, he rooted through its contents: clothes, in his size. Surely _Sherlock_ hadn't gone shopping for him. John was puzzled again, and was decidedly _not_ going to think about Sherlock buying him the red pants in this bag, nor would he think about why Sherlock knew his size.

John took the bag into Sherlock's room, too tired to take another flight of stairs to his old room and slipped into some of the new clothes. A stone gray v-necked jumper and a navy, white, and eggplant checked button down with jeans that John thought might cost more than he cared to know. He had a difficult time imagining Sherlock shopping for anything so casual, although the look was certainly agreeable with John's usual wardrobe. 

John sighed deeply and sat on the edge of the bed. He'd forgotten the comfort of fresh clothes and a cup of tea and thought, as his eyelids weighed heavily down, he might just do with a kip after all. 

_Just 20 minutes..._

\---

John awoke abruptly and in a panic an hour and a half later. He grabbed his phone and rang Sherlock immediately.

"John?"

"Sherlock, I fell asleep. Is everything alright?"

"Of course it is. And you were meant to sleep." John knew the "you idiot" was implied.

"Yes. Right. I just... I didn't mean to sleep this long." John rubbed his eyes and made his way to the sitting room.

"Well, Elizabeth is fine. I'm telling her about your blog now," Sherlock stated rather matter-of-factually.

"She's awake, then?" 

"For now, but your blog is boring her back into sleep, I'm afraid."

"Hm." John felt himself smile a bit in amusement. A miniscule warmth bloomed in his chest. 

"Visiting hours are over at 5, however. So, I imagine one of these morons will be around before then to usher me out." Was that disappointment in Sherlock's voice, John wondered? 

"Yes, well, I'll be there before then. I'll just go hail a cab now."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and disconnected.

John pocketed his phone and toed on his shoes. He poured the remaining tea down the sink, scarfed down the last biscuit, and tossed his dirty clothes into the washing machine on his way out. He was feeling a bit refreshed and stopped by Mrs. Hudson's briefly to return her cup and thank her for the courtesy. She asked about Elizabeth and then, with some hesitation, the funeral.

An icy grip took hold of John as he realized he'd done nothing yet to make arrangements. How long had it been? 5 days? Could it really be so long? The hours ran together as he struggled to come to grips with time. Mary didn't have any other family but she had friends. He'd have to get in touch with a funeral home, write an obituary, he hadn't even informed anyone at the clinic where they worked... 

_Oh god._ The reality of everything was hitting him and John thought he might retch. Mrs. Hudson cupped his hand in both of hers and looked at him with pity. Would he ever get used to that look people keep giving him?

"- John?" Mrs. Hudson was looking at him curiously. She had been speaking.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'm just..." The words wouldn't form on his tongue and he shook his head, breathing deeply and struggling to calm himself.

"Don't worry, love. You take your time and if there's anything at all you need, you let me know," she soothed.

John said a half-hearted goodbye, hailed a taxi, and made a mental list of all he needed to do as the cab hauled him back to the hospital.

\---

Sherlock had hoped John would be in better spirits, but apparently Mrs. Hudson inquired about the funeral and, as is his burden, Sherlock was right: John hadn't thought of the arrangements yet. Sherlock had the forethought to contact the clinic where John and Mary worked to inform them and warned (threatened) them not to call on John for anything whatsoever. However, when John looked at him with swollen eyes upon his return, Sherlock felt an uncomfortable pang of disappointment and decided more involvement would be necessary. 

"I'll handle informing everyone," Sherlock said, unprompted. 

"What?" John looked up at him in genuine confusion.

Sherlock blinked several times, collecting his words carefully. "About Mary. I will inform anyone you don't wish to speak with personally. And, the funeral arrangements. If you like, I'll go with you. If you... need... someone to..." Sherlock waved his hand about as if that completed the thought.

John nodded after a moment and Sherlock stood next to him as they both watched over Elizabeth. "I do need... someone. Yes." 

Sherlock nodded once, eyes still focused on John's daughter. "Shall we?" 

John reached his hand down to touch Elizabeth's and her fingers wrapped around his digit reflexively. Sherlock glanced at the floor, feeling something akin to heartache and he turned abruptly to leave the room, overcome momentarily. John was behind him in tow before he rounded the corner at the end of the hall.

\---

Sherlock loomed in the corner of the room and stared at the back of John's head as he spoke with the funeral director. The apologetic, patronizing old man was insufferable and Sherlock seethed quietly. The man continued to make sad, pitying eyes and gave John far too many options that clearly overwhelmed him. What did the flowers matter? Mary wouldn't be around to see the bloody things. Why did the damned casket have to be "comfortable"? It hardly mattered. None of it mattered. The nature of this place was a business, not a place for mourning. With each minute that passed Sherlock found himself inexplicably frustrated and fiercely protective of John. Unreasonably so.

"I guess lilies would be fine." John exhaled, shaking his head fractionally. 

The old man pulled out a catalog of flowers and explained what "most people" purchased and John nodded dumbly. Sherlock could tell even from behind that John was mentally checked out, his mind preoccupied. In a swift, gliding movement, Sherlock seated himself next to John in an empty chair across from the director and closed the catalog abruptly. John glanced up at him and then at the book and back to Sherlock, his brow furrowed.

"Your flowers won't be necessary, thank you. I'll be handling the arrangements with a florist who owes me a favor. As for the casket, please stop trying to up-sell us on features entirely unnecessary to the comfort of someone who is no longer... with us." Sherlock measured his words as carefully as possible. "We'll email you the details of the obituary tonight after John's had time to think. Now, please hand over the paperwork so that we can finish this and get back to our baby," Sherlock demanded.

 _Our baby? Did I really just say "our"?_ Sherlock refused to look at John although his friend was surely gaping at him. 

"His... baby," Sherlock clarified, a bit softer. "Now, the paperwork, please."

The old man scrambled and obeyed and Sherlock hailed a cab as John signed off on the paperwork.

\---

The cab headed to Baker Street first to drop off Sherlock and the ride was silent for a bit. Sherlock thrummed his fingers on his knee and stared out the window. 

"Thank you," John said, breaking the heavy silence. "I could have handled it." 

"I know," Sherlock responded a bit too quickly.

John nodded. "But thank you," he added with a sigh of what Sherlock deduced was relief. "I suppose I'm not myself at the moment."

"John, you should return to Baker Street." The words surprised even Sherlock. He hadn't meant to blurt it out this way. _Damn._

Sherlock kept his eyes fixated on London passing as the taxi drove and his words floated in the air, hanging there and taunting him as time slowed to a devastating, trickling pace.

John shifted next to Sherlock and cleared his throat. "I don't know, Sherlock." 

Silence settled in the air again as the cab driver pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock stiffened. He hadn't intended to have this conversation in this manner. The taxi halted and Sherlock didn't move. He didn't breathe. 

"Sherlock? You're home," said John.

"Yes. Home. Right." Sherlock blinked and searched his pockets for payment. 

_Damn, damn, damn._ He panicked and scanned his mind for the words he had rehearsed. He wanted to be there for John and Elizabeth. It was his vow. How could he be there if he wasn't _there?_ If he wasn't around.

"Sherlock?" John looked at him with concern.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and dramatically swooped out of the cab.

"Wait here, please," John told the driver as he climbed out after the madman. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock paused in front of the door of 221B, his back to John. 

"You alright?" John stepped a bit closer.

Sherlock swallowed. "It's your home, too," he said over his shoulder. "It has been all along." Sherlock held his breath a moment and chewed his bottom lip momentarily, facing the door still.

 _Don't get involved._

Mycroft's words rang out irritatingly in his mind and Sherlock suddenly felt the weight of their meaning more than ever. Long seconds of nothing passed and Sherlock's shoulders slumped fractionally, resignedly as he reached for the door.

"I'm not sure Mrs. Hudson can handle _two_ babies in one flat. Don't you think you're more than enough?" 

Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice and he grinned impishly, turning on his heel to face him. "She's already asked when you'll be coming back," he smirked.

John chuckled softly and shook his head. Sadness still clouded his tired eyes, but, Sherlock hoped, maybe a fraction less so. "I don't think you understand how life-changing a baby can be. And our life is dangerous at times. Our work is dangerous at times. Hell, our _fridge_ can be dangerous, Sherlock."

 _Our._ The word echoed in Sherlock's brain and he suppressed a microscopic smile. Sherlock looked down at his feet a moment and back up, meeting John's eyes. He bored into them with his own and, mustering his courage, asked John the one question which mattered most. 

"Where else would you rather be?"

John raised his chin, considering, and matched Sherlock's gaze. In that moment, Sherlock was almost certain his own heart skipped a beat as he waited. Seconds ticked by and the world itself stilled until John finally responded. 

"Nowhere."

Sherlock could breathe again. The world kept spinning. 

John Watson was coming _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks, thanks for reading!! Please feel free to check out my Sherlock [tumblr.](http://deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet.tumblr.com/) I do meta analyses and love to chat! Plus, I'm happy to receive Sherlock writing prompts! 
> 
> xo  
> DFOBS


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s your home, too. It has been all along."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I promise it won't always be this sad. Hang in there, my lovelies.)

“I _am_ working on the case, Mycroft,” Sherlock groaned dramatically. He'd been in such a good mood on his way up the stairs. Short-lived though it was. John had agreed to move back in and they could resume their work together. He was so distracted he hadn't even deduced that Mycroft was waiting for him in the flat.

“Sherlock, you haven’t answered your phone in 2 days and you have spent most of your time coddling John,” Mycroft responded coolly.

Sherlock's eyes darkened and he practically growled, “Leave. Now."

Mycroft didn’t budge and instead matched Sherlock’s glare. “Moriarty is alive. Or...as of nearly two weeks ago, appears to be. Now is not the time for sentimental -”

“Mary is _dead._ John is grieving and Elizabeth is still in hospital. Even you aren't that heartless," Sherlock boomed. Mycroft said nothing, but gave him a strange, studying look. "I _am_ working the case, and my homeless network is searching night and day. We both know that if Moriarty _is_ alive, which is highly improbable given my proximity to him when he blew out his brains, he will find _me._ ” Sherlock was now inches from Mycroft’s face, rage simmering, threatening to boil over.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began a fraction softer, but still firm and cool, “I realize the balance of probability. It is no doubt a hoax."

"Exactly -" Sherlock interjected, but was immediately cut off.

"However, we also both know the probability that the hoax is being carried out by one of Moriarty's network. As such, it is in _everyone’s_ interest that you get to the bottom of this, including John's. He is at risk to be targeted, it would hardly be the first time.” 

Sherlock looked away, hating that Mycroft was both irritating and correct. 

Mycroft continued, "and, don’t forget, brother dear, your exile was imminent if not for this very matter. It is imperative that this business with Moriarty is dealt with timely and with little collateral damage. You are a _murderer._ Do not forget that.”

Sherlock, unflinching under the scrutiny of his brother, felt cold inside as he thought of Magnussen. Pulling that trigger had been frightening and strangely empowering, which was far more disturbing than Sherlock was willing to consider at the moment. Moreover, he had known the consequences would be severe. If not for Moriarty's reappearance, he would be on a suicide mission for MI6, carrying out his final days alone. 

_Damn Mycroft._ "I'll need whatever files you have on Moriarty." 

"Don't you have your own?" Mycroft queried.

"Of course. But there must be someone out there that was overlooked during my dismantling of his network. I need to start at the beginning, again." Sherlock sat at the table and opened his laptop where his spreadsheet of Elizabeth's progress notes was up. He saved and minimized the document hastily and Mycroft didn't miss a beat. 

"I heard your little speech down there." Mycroft smirked, "John Watson will be returning to Baker Street."

"Are you still here?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mycroft ignored his brother's drama. "Are you certain that's wise? You're hardly paternal. And this flat is not exactly safe for an infant with all your experiments laying about."

Sherlock pulled up his files on Moriarty and internally grimaced as Mycroft made annoyingly valid arguments.

Mycroft picked up his umbrella from where it leaned against Sherlock's chair. "And there's only two rooms in this flat, of course."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "Elizabeth can sleep in John's room." 

"Not forever, brother dear."

Sherlock stood suddenly and grabbed his violin. "If you're quite finished," he began screeching hideous notes out to Mycroft's obvious irritation, "as you so kindly pointed out, I have work to do."

"I'll have the files delivered to you shortly." Mycroft grimaced and made his exit.

As Mycroft's heels hit the pavement, Sherlock lowered his instrument.

 _"Not forever, brother dear."_

Sherlock shook the words from his mind and returned to his files.

\---

John arrived at the hospital with Sherlock's behavior still on his mind. He had been taken slightly aback at Sherlock's outburst of sentiment. Of course, it was always the unexpected with Sherlock, wasn't it? John smiled a bit and wondered about the change in Sherlock's behavior since his return from the grave. In so many ways, Sherlock was more human than ever. Yet, there were moments when John was wrenched back into the reality of how starkly different he was than, well, everyone else in the world, he supposed. 

John returned to Elizabeth's room, hands freshly sanitized, and found a nurse holding her.

"Oh, you're just in time, Dr. Watson," the young woman smiled. "I was about to feed her."

John was pleased. He hadn't fed Elizabeth himself yet and was feeling rather guilty letting the nurses handle so much of her care. 

"Oh, and some good news. Doctor thinks he'll be taking Elizabeth's breathing tubes out tomorrow."

"Really?" John felt mildly horrified.

"Not to worry, Dr. Watson. Her lungs are doing well. She's a strong little girl and the doctor is confident in her progress." 

"Sorry. I know I'm a doctor and I shouldn't be so... so..." John couldn't find the words to explain his new found paranoia.

"S'alright." The pretty nurse gingerly passed Elizabeth to John and smiled warmly. 

Elizabeth stared up at John, eyes like saucers, and he was equally enraptured. He took the bottle from the nurse and put the nipple to Elizabeth's tiny mouth. 

"She's not really taking to it, is she? The bottle," John asked when Elizabeth didn't eat after a minute.

"Well, it's not uncommon with pre-term babies to be a bit of a challenge to feed, so don't take it too hard. But not to worry, we won't be taking her off the feeding tube until she gets the hang of the bottle. It'll just take some practice and patience. Takes weeks for some babies. Just keep at it a little while and I'll be back in a bit to check on you both." The nurse exited and John was left in silence to think.

 _"It's your home, too. It has been all along."_

John half-smiled recalling Sherlock's words. How difficult had that been, asking John to return to the flat? Sherlock wasn't a man to make grand gestures. Yet, lately, John was repeatedly moved and surprised by Sherlock's consideration. Not because he wasn't human. John knew better. But rather, because Sherlock was guarded. Very guarded.

Elizabeth mouthed at the nipple on her bottle and John returned to the present. "I guess we're moving in to the chaos of Baker Street." John raised an eyebrow. "S'pose you were never going to have a 'normal' life, were you?" John smirked down at Elizabeth. 

"Normal. Normal's boring," John said in his best Sherlockian impression and rocked Elizabeth gently.

\---

Sherlock's phone pinged at nearly 2 AM. He hadn't been sleeping, of course. He hadn't slept but a handful of hours in the last week. He was staring at the wall where he had been mapping out Moriarty's network. 

**Breathing tube out tomorrow.**

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and a small smile graced his lips.

**Tomorrow, or today? - SH**

**Today. Didn't realize the time.**

Sherlock began to respond when his phone pinged again.

**Not sleeping, then?**

**Obviously. Working, in fact. - SH**

**Got a case?**

**Moriarty. - SH**

A minute passed and Sherlock pocketed his phone and returned to his laptop to review more of the files Mycroft had emailed. Another minute passed and Sherlock frowned then glanced at his last text. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned Moriarty? John had his hands full already...

**Mycroft has people keeping an eye on the hospital and Elizabeth's room. - SH**

**Good.**

**Do you think it's really him?**

**Doubtful. Most likely a hoax. Someone from his network, probably. - SH**

**Thanks. For today.**

**Yesterday, rather.**

Thanks? Sherlock considered the text for a few moments. What did John mean?

**For the help with arrangements. And getting me out of the hospital a bit.**

Sherlock stared at his phone as he walked into his room to change into his dressing gown.

**Speaking of, shouldn't you be sleeping while you have the opportunity? I assume Elizabeth is doing the same. - SH**

Changed and feeling a bit sleepy himself, Sherlock flopped lazily on his bed and awaited John's response. Something was... different. Sherlock sniffed and lifted his head to glance around the room. A different smell. His bedclothes were slightly shifted. His pillow was moved. _John._ John had been in his bed. Sherlock could smell John on his bedclothes and his pillow. The familiarity of John's scent mingled with his own was ...comforting.

**Oh, you can talk.**

"Hm." Sherlock conceded aloud and rolled his eyes, smirking. He then rolled on his side, pulling his knees up to his chest, cheek pressed against the cool pillow still smelling of John. Sherlock's eyes closed a moment and he sighed unconsciously.

**Good night, John. - SH**

\---

John rubbed at the crick in his neck and yawned greatly. Hospital cots were hardly forgiving and he longed for the comfort of his bed. The alarm on his phone went off and he scrambled to end the hateful noise before it disturbed Elizabeth. John sighed and stared at the date on his phone. He hadn't seen or heard from Sherlock in the two days since he asked John to move back in and Mary's funeral was in a few hours. Mrs. Hudson had dropped off more of John's clothes, including a suit for the occasion. He just couldn't return to their home. Not yet. John couldn't stand to think of it empty and waiting, Mary's things about as if she had just stepped out momentarily and wasn't dead and gone forever.

"Right." John stood, steeling himself. Time to get ready.

\---

The funeral was an intimate affair. Close friends turned out and Sherlock arrived early and sat beside John during the service, Mrs. Hudson on his other side. The flowers Sherlock promised filled the room with whites, creams, purples and lavenders and several other large wreaths had arrived that John was certain Mycroft sent in lieu of his presence. Harry was noticeably absent as well. 

_Surprise, that._ John sneered internally.

He felt strangely calm during the service. As the minister, a man John had only just met this week, droned on and pretended to care about a woman whom he had never known, John stared at the flowers atop Mary's closed casket. A red rose lay amidst many white flowers and John focused his eyes on it, giving him a comforting distraction from the minister's practiced words.

John felt oddly heavy, his shoulders slumping from their usual soldierly cut and his head was swimming as his eyes could barely focus on the red rose anymore. He blinked several times and it occurred to him that no one was speaking. John looked at the minister who was looking at him in return, expectantly. 

"John..." said Sherlock softly. Even Sherlock was looking at him a bit pityingly and it was more than John could stand. He hated pity.

 _Oh._ It was his turn to speak, John realized suddenly. His knees felt weak, his leg ached, and his stomach roiled uproariously. Bracing himself, he stood and made his way to the podium near the casket. His hands clenched the speech, trembling a bit, and the paper crinkled under his grip. It seemed the loudest sound to him as the room was deafeningly quiet.

Clearing his throat and decidedly not looking up from his paper, John began. “M-Mary…” his voice cracked and he paused a moment before carrying on, “Mary was a bright spot in a dark time for, for me…She came along and… and saved me… saved me from myself.” His voice cracked again, tears threatening to breach, and his face felt hot. He stared down at the paper for a long moment and clenched his eyes tightly, shaking his head. _Breathe. Just breathe._

“I – I can’t. I loved Mary. I love her. I can’t -” The words on the paper long forgotten, John began to crumble, gripping the podium like a buoy as he drowned, sputtering and wheezing, undignified and desperate. Tears streamed hotly down his face and John put his hand over his eyes in an attempt to regain his composure, exhaling heavily. 

As John clenched his eyes and his body tightly and willed himself to calm, a hand rested tentatively on his shoulder. John could feel the towering presence next to him and knew instinctively it was Sherlock. He turned towards Sherlock to go sit, or leave the room, or disappear into oblivion, but the imposing figure did not move. Instead, Sherlock pulled John silently, gently toward him into an embrace, John’s lowered forehead resting on his chest. 

John’s swollen eyes opened and he stared down at the space disappearing between them as he marveled momentarily at the foreign feeling of this intimacy with Sherlock. John had hugged Sherlock once, but Sherlock hadn’t returned the gesture. The warmth was oddly soothing and Sherlock smelled of some posh cologne and vaguely of cigarettes. John’s eyes closed again as Sherlock rested his palm lightly on John’s back between his shoulder blades. 

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said softly, resting his other hand on the back of John’s neck lightly, almost not touching him at all. 

John caught his breath and shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t,” he choked out, pulling away slightly from Sherlock, not meeting his eyes. 

“I’ll take over,” Sherlock responded firmly, dropping his hands to release John.

John nodded and returned to his seat, keeping his eyes lowered, certain everyone was staring.

Sherlock took to the podium, visibly out of his element, but determined.

“Well,” he began, staring blankly ahead, obviously reaching for something to say. John wondered for a moment if this was a mistake as Sherlock’s speech giving experience was, as far as John knew, limited to his best man speech. Silence hovered, only broken by the occasional sniffle from a guest or a cough, and John thought he might have to stand again at the podium. 

John met Sherlock’s eyes and they locked for a moment before Sherlock looked away. Sherlock lifted his chin and began once again, “Apologies, ladies and gentlemen… I excel at many things, but spontaneous sentimentality is not generally among my talents.” He paused, reaching into his pocket and John watched in confusion as Sherlock withdrew and unfolded a bit of paper. Was that a speech? John's eyes welled slightly. Sherlock _planned_ to speak. 

“Mary Watson, John’s wife… Mary was a clever, charming, and lovely person. She was, and is, loved deeply by John… and by myself.” John stilled, listening raptly. “There are few people in this world whom I would consider a friend, mostly due to my own difficult nature, you'll not be surprised to know. However, Mary was among the very few on that increasingly short list. She was a woman of many gifts: intelligence, patience, wit, confidence, to name a few. I once foolishly vowed to Mary and John that I would always be there for them. I meant to protect them, both of them." Sherlock glanced down at his paper and swallowed. "However, I now find myself in the most frustrating of scenarios: a case which I not only _can not_ solve, but in which I am utterly and entirely useless. One in which the victim I could not protect, and the culprit can not be brought to justice. There is no justice on this day, only victims. Only loss." Sherlock looked up and met John's eyes again before glancing over at Mary's casket. "However, in true Watson form, Mary, at all costs, did what I could not. She protected that which mattered most to her: her loved ones. In her last moments, Mary brought forth into the world a remarkable baby girl." Sherlock allowed himself a small, fond smile that made John's heart ache. "Elizabeth Watson: Mary's final act of love, and her most precious gift of all." 

John looked down at his clenched fists in his lap and tried to reign his emotions. The guests' soft crying and sniffling resounded in the room.

"So while we may mourn the loss of Mary's extraordinary presence, let us also honor her memory by rejoicing in the most cherished gift she had to offer: her daughter." Sherlock folded his paper on the podium with finality.

When Sherlock looked up from his paper, John was staring at him with swollen eyes and he stood abruptly, crossing the room to Sherlock.

"John?" Sherlock looked at him curiously and John ignored him and pulled Sherlock almost forcefully against his body, hugging him tightly. 

"Thank you," John said softly into Sherlock's shoulder. 

Sherlock said nothing, but allowed himself to be embraced, and John stepped back after a moment. Sherlock, looking a bit caught off-guard, nodded once in acknowledgement of the gratitude and quickly returned to his seat. John remained at the podium a moment as the minister approached him, presumably to wrap up the service. John glanced down to find Sherlock's forgotten paper sitting atop the podium and he pocketed it as the minister stepped aside and allowed John to seat himself.

\---

The service was over, the burial commenced, the small crowd finally dissipated aside from Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, who stood near John as he watched the last of the guests disappear into the distance. The longest day of his life was over and John released a heavy sigh. He turned to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and gave a small, polite smile that he in no way thought they believed. 

"Well," John began, glancing at Mrs. Hudson, "thank you for being here."

Mrs. Hudson once again looked at John with eyes full of pity and smiled warmly, "If there's anything else, you just give us a call. I'll bring over some food tomorrow. Unless you want to stay over tonight. Sherlock said you'd be moving back in."

"Yes. Well, eventually. Perhaps not tonight. Elizabeth's had her breathing tube out, so I ought to stay nearby."

"Oh, that's wonderful, John," Mrs. Hudson beamed. "Isn't it wonderful, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Of course." Sherlock smiled softly. 

"Well, I'd better get back." John felt a deepening guilt about it, but he couldn't wait to get as far from Mary's grave as possible. 

"Right," said Sherlock, "I'd best return to work."

"I'll go fetch us a cab, shall I?" Mrs. Hudson hugged John and excused herself.

"Work? Moriarty?" John inquired.

"Yes. Or rather, one of Moriarty's network, I suspect, but I still have no evidence. No connection." Sherlock frowned frustratedly. 

"And nothing new from Moriarty or his imposter?" John thought he really should be heading back to the hospital, but he had been feeling so cooped up. So trapped, even in his own thoughts, at times. He longed for the distraction of a case. 

"Nothing." Sherlock sighed and Mrs. Hudson waved at him as a cab pulled up.

"Well. Right. Good luck, then." John pursed his lips. Now was not the time to get caught up in Sherlock's chaos, magnetic though it was.

Sherlock glanced at him curiously, studying and John felt exposed and guilty. Sherlock would surely see he was interested in the case. How could he think of that right now? John hated himself in that moment.

"Mmm." Sherlock nodded, turning to leave. "Goodbye, John."

\---

Sherlock returned with Mrs. Hudson to Baker Street and John to the hospital where Elizabeth awaited him with soft, pleasantly unobstructed gurgles. John slipped off his suit jacket and toed off his shoes, settling down into the chair near Elizabeth. He was exhausted physically and mentally, like a crash after a burst of adrenaline. A bit of paper fell from his jacket pocket and John retrieved it from where it landed. 

Sherlock's speech, John remembered. Curiosity overcame him, as John turned the paper over in his hands, noting how worn it was about the edges. Sherlock must have carried it around for a few days. John smiled in mild amusement, imagining Sherlock working on the speech, bothering Lestrade at crime scenes about just the right words. John gently unfolded the delicate paper.

_Sherlock..._

John held the paper with trembling hands and felt the familiar roil of his stomach as his heart lurched forward.

It was a black and white printed photograph of John cradling tiny, beautiful Elizabeth in his arms. 

He'd never seen this photo. Did Sherlock take this? There was no speech on the page. Nothing written down at all but "The Watsons" in Sherlock's scrawl. John flipped the page over briefly and it was completely, entirely blank.

_"...but spontaneous sentimentality is not generally among my talents."_

John stared at the photo and his chest twinged. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he was overcome with the weight of Sherlock's words. He thought Sherlock had planned a speech and John had been moved. Instead, Sherlock had done the unimaginable. He had improvised something akin to poetry from his heart, exposed and vulnerable in front of a crowd as he clung to a photograph of John and Elizabeth. 

_"Elizabeth Watson: Mary's final act of love, and her most precious gift of all."_

Tears welled a bit in John's tired, swollen eyes and his head was swimming for the second time that day. He gently folded the photograph up again and tucked it away safely in his breast pocket, resting his hand there over the folded photo. John leaned his head back and relaxed in the chair, staring at the ceiling and then closing his eyes after a moment. A small smile broke across his lips as John wondered how anyone, himself included, could ever doubt the depths of humanity in Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know, none of us are the people we start out as.

Sherlock paced the dusty wooden floors of 221B and ruffled his hair in frustration, turning on his heel to stare at the wall again. Papers were tacked and taped and photos of potential members of Moriarty's network crossed out. Nothing was adding up. Short of an exhumation, Moriarty was as confirmed dead as reasonably possible. Moriarty's network had been vast and two years had seemed plenty enough time for its undoing. Sherlock was now nearly convinced the culprit of this hoax was unrelated to Moriarty's network. But why? It was terribly elaborate for a mere copycat criminal. Time to explore those possibilities, it seemed. 

Sherlock collapsed into his chair and propped his feet up on John's, staring at the increasingly familiar emptiness of it. It struck Sherlock as odd. That chair that had spent most of it's existence _without_ a John Watson in it. Yet, lacking John's presence, the chair seemed... _wrong_. Incomplete, imperfect. How that could possibly be, Sherlock could not ascertain. Almost three weeks had passed since Mary's funeral and nearly 7 days since Sherlock last visited John and Elizabeth at the hospital. For some reason that was particularly bothersome. He hadn't been able to keep the same thorough notes on Elizabeth's progress as before and had to rely merely on text updates from John each evening. Of course, John was an excellent physician and Sherlock trusted he would be kept apprised of any significant developments or regressions in her health, but something about the scenario was still extraordinarily disquieting. Sherlock dipped his head back, face to the ceiling, and exhaled deeply, tremulously. He reached into his pocket for a second nicotine patch and rolled up his sleeve to adhere it. He'd fallen off the wagon during his stint as a corpse and wouldn't dare subject Elizabeth to smoke in the flat. He'd simply have to adjust, again. _Better make it three patches..._

_"Is that three patches?"_

_"It's a three patch problem."_

Sherlock lolled his head to the side and studied the sofa, recalling his first adventure with John fondly. Chasing a taxi through London, laughing together downstairs as they caught their breath. That had been the first laugh he'd shared with another person in, maybe years, Sherlock thought with some despondency. A time before John. A time of darkness in which he hadn't even truly known he was living. Would there be more joyless times such as that?

The universe answered with impeccable timing and Sherlock's phone chimed a message from John.

**I'm bloody well going insane living out of suitcases and sleeping on hospital cots. Also I think my body is forgetting what real food is like.**

Sherlock grinned. Perhaps they both needed a distraction. Some fresh air and company for a bit. Sherlock glanced once again at John's empty chair and swallowed quietly.

**I need your help on the case. - SH**

John didn't immediately reply. Perhaps he was still concerned about leaving Elizabeth alone, Sherlock surmised.

**I could bring a takeaway. Chinese? - SH**

**God yes.**

Sherlock fetched his laptop and donned his coat, bustling out the door enthusiastically.

\---

"So it's not Moriarty, because he's dead, and now you don't think it's one of Moriarty's people either?" John shoveled some pork fried rice in his mouth as Sherlock opened his laptop and rested it on John's knees.

"Here," Sherlock pointed to a file on his laptop and John opened it. "It's an index of affiliates and potentials that Mycroft provided. They all check out. As does my own list." Sherlock bent and hovered behind John just over his shoulders as they skimmed the index.

"And there's been nothing new, still? No more videos or messages from him?" 

"No." Sherlock looked vexed, his frown lines deepening. 

Elizabeth began to wail in sympathy with Sherlock's plight.

"Bloody hell. Her lungs appear to be doing _quite_ well, don't they?" John smirked and set down his food.

"Would you like me to..." Sherlock began, trailing off hesitantly.

"Really?" John looked at him in surprise.

Sherlock hadn't held Elizabeth yet, and if he was perfectly honest, he was a bit anxious, although nervous, to do. Now that her breathing tubes were out, he was feeling more comfortable with the idea. Sherlock glanced at John who was watching him expectantly.

"Go on, then." John smiled.

Sherlock swallowed and crossed over to Elizabeth where she continued to exclaim her distaste for the world in general.

"There, now. It's alright. None of that," Sherlock whispered, lifting her slowly, gingerly, cradling her tiny head. Elizabeth's cries began to reach an ebb. "I've got you, little one." Sherlock stared down, taking in the sight of the delicate form in his arms, her blue eyes staring right back. His heart lurched a bit, which was of course impossible, but felt so.

"Figures," John commented as he scrolled the index still on Sherlock's laptop. 

Sherlock didn't dare spare him a glance as he walked the room with Elizabeth, his eyes still fixated on her as he memorized every detail in light of this new intimacy. The weight of her in his arms. Her warmth. Her scent. The petite nails on each of her digits and each of her toes. Her steady breaths, he counted them in his head for a minute. Her lungs were indeed doing well. Sherlock beamed with equal parts relief and joy as he walked her to the window for a bit of sunlight.

"Should have guessed. You're the cleverest man I know. Of course you can handle babies on top of everything else." John smirked and tucked back into his takeaway eagerly.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Elizabeth doesn't know who's holding her. Only that she is out of that dreadful hospital bed." Sherlock couldn't contain his smile all the same. He fancied she might like him holding her, musing internally that she had never been this high up before. 

"Your father does love hyperbole," Sherlock complained to Elizabeth, who had already begun to doze back off. "She's clearly not impressed, either."

"Great, I'll have two of you now, will I? Please don't imprint your dramatic flair on my daughter."

"Hm." Sherlock conceded with a smirk and a nod and sat in the chair across from John, cradling Elizabeth against his chest. "Still think you should have named her Sherlock. Have you chosen a middle name?"

"No and no." John continued his perusing of Sherlock's laptop.

"So..." Sherlock lifted his chin. "You seem...better."

"Hm. Yeah. Well some days are better than others."

Sherlock nodded. He wasn't entirely sure what to say to John. _Glad your wife's death is getting easier? Time helps us all forget?_ Probably not. "Elizabeth's progressing well it seems. Any indication when she might be discharged?"

John pulled a strange face at the laptop resting on his knees. "Sherlock? Have you been keeping records on my daughter?"

 _Oh god._ Sherlock's mouth went dry with embarrassment and he couldn't meet John's eyes. "I. Well, yes. I thought." He stammered gracelessly, glancing down at Elizabeth in his arms as if even she might offer up something a bit more eloquent than he could manage at the moment. 

She did not. 

He searched for an explanation, but the truth was, he wasn't exactly sure why he had kept the records at all.

John smiled at Sherlock with a disarming warmth. "Thank you."

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together in confusion.

John closed the laptop and set it aside. "For looking out for her. For caring."

_Oh._

"It's not something you need to be thanking me for, John. You are my best friend," Sherlock lowered his head to gaze on Elizabeth sleeping peacefully, "and she is, well, she is..."

 _Perfect. Innocent. A cherub._ Sherlock loved the gorgeous baby in his arms. Loved her as he imagined he would love his own. It was a sudden and terrifying and entirely unexpected self-deduction.

"Your goddaughter," John supplied.

The world halted briefly. It skipped like a broken record, the words tripping about in the air on repeat. Sherlock dragged his eyes away from Elizabeth to meet John's. "Really?"

"'Course." John nodded with seriousness. "Look at you. You might love her as much as I do." John reached into his pocket and pulled out a bit of paper. 

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat, flustered and not a little panicked as he recognized the paper in John's hands.

"You left this at Mary's funeral. I thought it was your speech. But you didn't have one, did you? You spoke from your heart." 

"I..." Sherlock thought his brain was short-circuiting and he blinked rapidly as he stared at the photo John was unfolding. His photo. His photo of John and Elizabeth.

"I know people think you aren't human. And there are moments I forget as well," John smiled softly. "But Sherlock, I do know better. And no matter the crazy mess you get us into, no matter the bloody experiments, and the sulking, and the tantrums, and the ridiculousness..." John paused and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I trust you with my life. Of course I trust you with hers." John refolded and tucked the paper into Sherlock's breast pocket. 

Sherlock felt the warmth of John's hand dissipate and the presence of the photo in the pocket against his chest. He was suddenly, strangely aware of his own heart, the beats a bit faster and thrumming in his ears. His heart, so close to the photo, separated only by flesh and bone and a bit of cloth. He was sure there was an absurd metaphor to be extrapolated from that ridiculously sentimental observation, but he frankly couldn't be arsed to care if he was romanticizing a bit. John wanted _him_ as godfather. Sherlock kept his face lowered towards Elizabeth and stood slowly. He walked her to her bed and gently lowered her into it, careful not to rouse her. His back was still to John when he located the words he was seeking. 

"I'm honored. Truly, John." 

John stood and moved next to Sherlock, both of them watching reverently over his sleeping daughter. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a small squeeze before dropping it back to his side. Sherlock's shoulder was suddenly cold where John's hand had been, but a new warmth bloomed deep in the pit of his stomach, his chest brimmed with an inexplicable fullness and his eyes glistened. He could have never imagined being the godfather of anyone's child. But John Watson was always the exception, wasn't he? From the first, John had accepted him and befriended him and saved him, all the while never fully comprehending the weight of his worth to Sherlock. 

_If I am at all human, it is because of you, my Dear Dr. Watson._

"Well," Sherlock stepped back and slipped on his coat, "I'd best be off. My brother will no doubt be looming about the flat for an update. Suppose I'll be stopping off at the bakery on my way home."

John laughed and shook his head. "Well, I don't suppose I was much help at all."

"Nonsense. I was feeling rather cooped up, myself. Perhaps the distraction will prove useful."

"Funny timing, that. Like a bloody miracle." John chuckled a bit and noshed on his egg roll again.

"Sorry?" Sherlock looked at him in confusion as he wrapped his scarf about himself.

"Well, whether or not it's a hoax, couldn't have come at a better time. You were being bloody exiled. And now you're not."

Sherlock stiffened sharply. His eyes danced back and forth and the cogs in his brain rotated at rapid-fire. "John..!"

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Of course! Obviously!" Sherlock paced the room with fervor and twirled back to John with all the drama he could muster. "This isn't about Moriarty. It's never been about Moriarty. This is about _me_!"

"Isn't everything?" John smirked, clearly pleased with himself. Sherlock ignored the ribbing and continued his monologue.

"Someone wanted to keep me here in London. Or, perhaps, keep me away from where I was _headed_. That bit remains to be seen, although most likely the former scenario." Sherlock smiled genuinely down at John, and for a surreal moment thought he might kiss him for his accidental brilliance. One meal with John Watson (not that Sherlock ate) and he was already back on task. 

"John, you are _indeed_ my unwitting conductor of light." 

Sherlock grabbed his laptop excitedly. "I'd best go. I'll text you with any new details." He turned to leave, sneaking a last glance at Elizabeth, who had managed to sleep through all that excitement, and disappeared through the doorway in a flash.

John felt as if a tornado had blown through after Sherlock left and once again he found himself behind in the wake. 

_"John, you are indeed my unwitting conductor of light."_

John shook his head a bit and smiled fondly. The man did have a charming way about him. When he wanted to. 

Before John could spare a second thought, Elizabeth's doctor, Dr. Green, entered the room. 

"Dr. Watson, how are we today?" 

She set about to checking Elizabeth's vitals. She was shorter than John, and he took a second to appreciate being the tallest person in the room, a rare pleasure indeed, before answering.

"Alright." He forced a smile. 

Forcing smiles for the sake of courtesy was getting a fraction easier. Saying he was "alright" had become a reflex. John yearned for the day people stopped asking him out of some morbid obligation. He answered that bloody question a dozen times a day, and never until Mary's death had the question felt like anything more than a pleasantry. Now it was a burden on both the inquirer and the inquiree. Of course he wasn't "alright", but no one wants to hear he's not "alright", not really, anyway. They want to feel a little bit better for having asked and he wanted to spare rehashing his feelings on the death of his wife for the hundredth time. 

"Well, we have some good news, then," she smiled, pushing a bit of her red hair back behind an ear. She paused to glance over Elizabeth's chart and jotted something down before continuing. "I think we can discharge Elizabeth within the week. 

"Really?" John felt a panic rising inside.

"Yes. She's gotten the hang of her bottle and if she continues to breathe untroubled without her tubes over the next few days, I think we can send you two packing." She smiled brightly and replaced Elizabeth's chart.

"Well, are - are you sure?" Why was he saying that? He'd been desperate to get out of the hospital, hadn't he? 

Dr. Green smile knowingly. "Dr. Watson -"

"John. John's fine."

"John, I realize you must be apprehensive. This month can't have been easy on you. I'm not a therapist, but getting back to your life outside of these walls might do you some good. The nurses tell me you rarely leave at all. Frankly, I think it will be great for you and for Elizabeth to get the hell out of this place." She smiled sympathetically.

He nodded solemnly and made a noncommittal noise and she made her excuses to leave. 

Get back to what life, John wondered. His wife was dead, and they'd only _just_ gotten back into a sort of decent place after their falling out. And it hadn't been a great place, just... better-ish. Not every day a bloke finds out his wife lied about her entire identity and was actually a former assassin. Oh yeah, and she shot and nearly killed your best friend. Not exactly the sort of thing he could unload onto his therapist, he mused half-heartedly. Could he just go back to work? Working in the same place he met Mary? He still hadn't been back to their home yet. What would he do with all her things? He'd told Sherlock he'd be moving back in. He'd have to sell their home. 

John's head swam with all that awaited him outside the hospital. He felt nauseated and suddenly a bit hot. Reality besieged his brain. _One thing at a time, John._ He tried to talk himself down from his reemerging panic. A text message alert startled him, though temporarily distracting him.

**Up for a pint, mate?**

John hesitated. He hadn't seen Greg in a while and yes, he definitely could use a bloody pint. Or two. Rationally, he knew he'd have to start letting go. Elizabeth was doing well. Being discharged soon. And he wouldn't _always_ be around her once they left the hospital. He'd have to work eventually. She'd need a sitter. And wasn't she safest here with all the staff monitoring her?

**Definitely.**

He grabbed his coat and kissed Elizabeth's forehead before heading out.

\---

"You're late, brother dear," Mycroft complained.

Sherlock smirked and dropped a bag onto the kitchen table. "Had to pop down to the bakery."

Mycroft rolled his eye towards the ceiling as Sherlock offered him a pastry.

"Oh, still dieting, are you? Pity." Sherlock took a great bite, exaggerated little groans of appreciation escaping his lips. "Mmmm. Delicious."

"Have you made any progress on Moriarty? The Prime Minister has asked for an update."

Sherlock took a second bite. "Oh, Mycroft, you are truly missing out."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft warned. 

"This isn't about Moriarty."

Mycroft gave him a studying glance. "You mean it's about you." It wasn't a question.

"Exactly."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in consideration. "The timing was rather fortuitous. With your imminent exile and all."

"Hardly _imminent_. Past-tense. Exiled. I was indeed exil _ed_."

"Who could possibly want you to stay in London so desperately?"

Sherlock raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Not just 'who', but _why?_ "

"You've reviewed your file and mine? All of the network and potential affiliates check out?"

"Yes. It's all perfectly, frustratingly, ordinary."

"How's John, then?" Mycroft smiled designedly. "That's where you were, of course."

"John needed a proper meal and I some fresh air." Sherlock said a bit too quickly.

Mycroft's smile faded a bit. "Sherlock, do you really think it's wise?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Sherlock, John's got a child now. Do you really think you two can simply carry on solving crimes as you once did? Children change things."

"John _wants_ to return."

"I'm certain he does, but that hardly makes it a good idea."

"Stop mothering me, Mycroft. And you needn't worry about John or Elizabeth. We are perfectly fine. I'm to be Elizabeth's godfather, in fact." Sherlock attempted to ignore the sudden onset of pride. 

"John's asked _you_ to be the godfather?" Mycroft's eyebrows were raised in surprise.

"Of course. Why shouldn't I be?" Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked away. Of course, Sherlock had been as shocked as Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and stood from his place in John's chair, and distinctly said _nothing._ Which was perhaps more annoying than if he had indeed said something.

"What?" Sherlock prodded.

"I'm only concerned for your feelings."

Sherlock made a disgusted face and scoffed. "Feelings? Oh, please. I don't know what you are talking about, Mycroft. Time to go. I'll text you with any details."

"Sherlock, I know what John means to you, but you can't possibly -"

Sherlock opened the door. "Out. I've a dead man to locate."

Mycroft stiffened and gave his brother a withering look. "Fine. I'll be in touch later this week."

Sherlock slammed the door shut as Mycroft exited and crossed the room, sitting down firmly in his chair. He closed his eyes. The time for distractions was over, he thought, as he retreated slowly, deeply into the realm of his mind palace. 

\---

"The godfather?" Greg paused with his pint midway to his lips.

"Yeah. Yes." John nodded before continuing to nurse his own.

Greg nodded and pursed his lips in consideration, running a hand through his silver hair.

"I'm telling you, Greg. Sherlock's... he's...different. Softer, I think. And he doesn't say it, but he's bloody smitten with Elizabeth."

Greg laughed and downed a bit of his beer. "John, you don't have to tell me he's different. I've seen it."

John was puzzled.

"You can't imagine what it was like before he had you." 

"Ah, yes. Because he's never done or said anything bloody stupid since I've come 'round." John laughed.

"He was a mess. And when you think he's at his worst, well, imagine that _all_ the time." Greg smiled for a pause, watching the amber liquid in his glass settle. "But there were always glimpses... just fractions of a moment when he'd let his guard down, I guess, and I knew. I knew he could be a good man."

_"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And maybe, one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."_

John gripped his pint and thought of Sherlock holding Elizabeth, looking for all the world like he was cradling the most beautiful treasure he'd ever seen.

"You bring it out in him, John. I always believed it was in there, somewhere. I dunno how, but you -"

"Keep him right?" John said, echoing Sherlock's sentiments on the day of his wedding.

"Yeah, I s'pose you do," Greg smiled and finished off his pint.

\---

It was half 11 when Sherlock was startled out of his mind palace. He'd been there for a few hours and the muscles in his back were stiff from sitting in one spot, unmoving. There was commotion on the stairs, a stumbling sound and then a groan. _John._

"Sher-Sherlock," John slurred.

"John?" Sherlock stood and strode across the flat to find John leaning against the post atop the stairs. "You're drunk."

"N'aww." John grinned at him.

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mhmm. And I suppose you didn't go out for a pint with Gordon?"

"Greg," John corrected as he walked towards Sherlock and stood, his gait unsteady.

"Greg. With Greg." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Why can't you remember his name? You can remember anything you want." John pushed past Sherlock and entered the flat.

"Why is it you can go out and get drunk but you've barely left the hospital for anything else this month?" Sherlock had a bit more edge to his voice than he meant. He found himself inexplicably... hurt? 

John frowned at the floor as if considering, but he said nothing.

Sherlock sighed, "John -"

Before he could finish, Mrs. Hudson entered with knock and a "hoo-hoo! Sherlock? I thought I heard John."

John waved stupidly and smiled under glassy, heavy lidded eyes.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. John's decided what he needs on top of a potentially crippling depression is a good old fashioned drinking habit."

"Oh dear, I'll make him a cuppa."

Her solution to everything, naturally. "Better skip the tea, Mrs. Hudson. I doubt John will be keeping anything down this evening."

"Oh the poor dear. Well, he'll be feeling that in the morning. At least get him some water, Sherlock. You just let me know if you need anything." She disappeared back downstairs.

"John," Sherlock sighed and studied him a moment. "Don't you want to go back -"

"No," John interrupted, turning clumsily on his heel towards Sherlock, looking at him with desperate reddened eyes. "No, I can't go back there. I have to sell it. It's a lie. All of it. "

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together. _Sell it? Sell what? Oh. The house._ Sherlock moved to stand in front of John and gripped his shoulders in attempt to focus John. "No, John. The hospital. To Elizabeth -" 

John dropped his head and spoke at the floor. "I can't bare it, Sherlock. You know, just, everyone. Everyone looking at me with their fucking pity. But they don't understand. I've been mourning Mary so long. Long time." His speech continued to slur and he just kept shaking his head, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

A dull ache manifested in Sherlock's chest. "John, I know it feels very long. And I'm sorry for that. I -"

"Ever since she - since she shot, shot you. I lost her then. She was gone. All the things she did before..."

 _Oh._ Sherlock felt atypically two steps behind John's logic, drunken though it was. "John, I thought you didn't read the materials on Mary's flash drive."

John continued shaking his head, still not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Didn't have to. She was gone because she was never there. Mary Morstan wasn't a real person. But she was carrying my fucking child."

Sherlock's stomach dropped and he stiffened. How had he not known John felt this way? 

"Come on, John." Sherlock placed his palm flat in the middle of John's back and gently lead him down the hall. No sense in him returning to the hospital in this condition, and Elizabeth hardly needed him hovering over her 24/7 while she was being cared for. John stumbled a bit and stopped once to lean on the wall before they made it the short distance to Sherlock's room. Sherlock opened the door and John took a few short steps before falling face first into the bed, his legs still mostly hanging off. 

"Come on, then." Sherlock put his hands under John's arms and tugged him up, moving him closer towards the top of the bed to put his head on a pillow. John responded with a groan and a nondescript noise. He was a dead weight, solid in Sherlock's arms and he landed on the pillow with a heavy thud. 

"I just... I need..."

Sherlock waited, but John appeared to be unsure of the rest of his sentence. "I'll get you some water," Sherlock said and stepped out of the room.

When he returned, John was sitting up a bit, struggling to pull off his jumper. Sherlock rolled his eyes and was reminded of why he hated getting drunk. A lesson from the stag night he wouldn't soon forget. Sherlock set down the glass of water and grabbed the end of John's jumper, tugging it up over John's head as he struggled.

"Hang on, John. Just sit still." Sherlock pulled the jumper off him, revealing a messy head of blonde and gray hair at last. 

"S'hot. So hot," John groaned as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed in front of John. "Hang on, John, just -"

"Hot," he complained again.

"I know. Hang on," Sherlock repeated patiently, his fingers working the buttons on John's shirt. "You know, if you were more coherent you'd be making a defensive joke about latent homosexuality. Don't know why you get so concerned with those sorts of labels."

John's chin was tilted down and he looked up at Sherlock, grinning impishly. "Now people will definitely talk." 

Sherlock smiled and shook his head minutely as he continued working his way down the buttons, revealing bit by bit the plain white t-shirt spread across John's muscled chest. Once finished, Sherlock helped John disrobe it, tossing both the shirt and the jumper onto his dresser.

"Now, some water. Your head will be splitting in the morning." 

Sherlock passed him the glass and John was still grinning at him. "You keep me right, too, ya know."

A soft laugh escaped Sherlock before his face sombered. "I'm given to understand that's what best friends do."

John's grin softened and he stared into Sherlock's eyes, the two of them sharing in a moment of intense silence, nothing more than shallow breathing passing between them.

Sherlock broke first, shriveling a bit under the intensity of John's scrutiny. "John, your water."

John blinked a bit and glanced down at the glass in his hands. "Elizabeth's getting di-discharged this week," John said between sloppy sips.

"Really?" Sherlock perked up a bit. "That's good. Very good, John." Sherlock stood and pulled off one of John's shoes as he continued sipping his water.

"Yep," John said with finality and set down his glass, a bit wobbly, on the night stand. "Still time to back out, Sherl." 

"Sherl?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he removed John's other shoe, tossing it to the floor.

"Oh, what, I have to be your fake girlfriend to call you that?"

"Yes. Definitely," he responded.

John flopped backwards and stared at the ceiling. 

"Back out of what?" Sherlock looked confusedly at John as he crossed the room to the door.

"Hmm?" John lolled his head lazily to the side to look at Sherlock as his hands crept down to the buttons of his trousers, unfastening them. 

"Nevermind," Sherlock said quickly and glanced down at the floor, suddenly feeling as if he should give John some privacy. Not that Sherlock was overly modest, himself. It was just the human body. Why did it suddenly bother him, he wondered?

"Moving in. Me. The baby. Not too - not too late," John continued as he struggled to push down his trousers lazily.

"Why would I change my mind?" Sherlock looked back up, genuinely confused.

"Gonna be nappies and a crib and bottles and crying and..." he trailed off as he furthered his efforts in ridding himself of his trousers without actually standing up. 

"I know," Sherlock said solemnly as he watched John work his trousers down to his knees revealing black pants and pale legs thick with muscle. 

"And once she starts crawling, you can't just leave your mess all over the place. She'll get into - into everything." He kicked his trousers off at last and they landed gracelessly on the floor.

"Yes, well. I'll adjust. I'm her godfather, after all." Sherlock relented a small smile, finding he was still feeling quite proud.

"That's right, you are." John rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his elbow, a lazy smile on his face as he met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. 

"Well, I should let you get some sleep." He turned to reach for the light switch.

"What do I tell Elizabeth?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock turned around to face John who was on his back again, face to the ceiling.

"About Mary. What do I tell her?"

Sherlock sat on the other side of the bed and thought for a moment. He was feeling a bit out of his wheelhouse, but John clearly needed his attention at the moment. He slipped off his shoes and lay back next to John and studied the ceiling with him. 

"The truth," he said after few moments.

John scoffed. "What, 'your mother was a liar and an assassin and I don't know her real name'?"

Sherlock knew it was the alcohol speaking, mostly, but he couldn't help but grimace at John's words. "Maybe. Eventually. But perhaps just tell her of the Mary you knew before -"

"Before I found out the truth," John said, bitterly.

"John, you _did_ know Mary Morstan. Who you didn't know was the woman she was before. You _can_ in fact tell Elizabeth about Mary." Sherlock paused a moment in thought, both of them still regarding the ceiling. "You know, none of us are the people we start out as."

John remained silent and still. The air felt thickened with subtext and words unacknowledged. Finally, after a desperately long minute, he spoke. 

"And who were _you?_ Before." His voice was a touch deeper than usual, sleep threatening to overcome him. 

Side by side, the two men lay with eyes to the ceiling, and a world of unspoken sentiments deafened the room. Once again they sat at the precipice of baring their souls, but neither would leap first into the abyss unknown below. For what can be lost that has not been risked? If two years of isolation from all those he held dear had taught Sherlock anything, it was that he had been desperately, devastatingly lonely before John came along. And time and time again since his return from the grave, Sherlock thought he might let John in on this fact. He thought he might connect with this person he loved in a way no one believed him capable. Openness. Vulnerability. In the wrong hands, it was exploited. But not John Watson - never John Watson. Sherlock thought there was nothing he could not tell John, if only he were brave enough to do so... 

"I was alone," Sherlock breathed over his lips, the words almost imperceptible.

Silence. 

Sherlock turned his head towards John. He was finally asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

**"A Clear Midnight" by Walt Whitman**

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death and the stars.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He was disembodied, merely observing his own life rather than experiencing it, as Sherlock's face drew in, his penetrating gaze unbroken. Blue eyes searched his own and John tipped his chin up, uncertain what was to come, but trusting all the same. For where Sherlock leads, does he not follow?

Upon waking, John was certain he had been run down by a cab or something of equal mass. His eyes opened, but the daylight was ablaze and he recoiled, yanking a blanket over his face. 

"Christ," he groaned.

 _What the hell?_ As his brain slowly, painfully labored into wakefulness, John felt, among many other horrible feelings, out of place. He pushed himself into a sitting position which he immediately regretted, but muddled through. His head throbbed and his stomach churned. The blanket, which had served to block out the dreadful window flooding in blinding light, fell from his face and this too he regretted. In fact, John was coming to grips with his surroundings and, upon the realization of his whereabouts, was certain that this would be a day of many regrets. This was not the hospital. This was Sherlock's bed. His eyes began to focus despite themselves and he glanced down. Perfect. No trousers. 

"Jesus," he sighed and, against all odds, stood to seek out his absentee clothes. 

Once located, he slipped them on, foregoing his shirt and jumper in favor of the plain white t-shirt he was still wearing. His tongue was fuzzy and a cursory glance in the mirror revealed that his hair was defying the law of gravity, but he ignored his hygienic deficiencies and trudged into the living room. 

"Sherlock?" John's voice was graveled and his head pulsated at the sound of it.

Sherlock was perched in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin and unblinking. 

_Thinking, then._ John proceeded to the kitchen in search of something to settle his stomach and ease the aching in his head. He set the kettle to boil and seated himself in waiting at the kitchen table. He tried to recall the events of the previous evening, but he could only recall fragments. He'd gone for a pint with Greg. Greg had been called away to a crime scene after the second round. John ordered another... and another. It started to get hazy after that point. He remembered Sherlock. Remembered - oh no. He'd complained about Mary. Jesus Christ, he'd said awful things about his dead wife.

John dropped his forehead into his hands, elbows on the table, submerged in guilt and self-loathing. 

"Don't."

John looked up, startled to find Sherlock in the kitchen, fetching two mugs for tea. 

"Don't what? Oh god. And Elizabeth! I've been gone all night!" 

Sherlock set John's tea in front of him and towered above, his red dressing gown hanging off his left shoulder carelessly. 

"First, I've already called the ward to check on Elizabeth. She is fine, nothing to report. Second..." Sherlock seemed to gather his breath, "social conventions dictate a need to glorify the dead simply because they are dead. You remember Mary as she was, both the good and the bad. You are entitled to feel as you ever did about her and I will certainly not have you moping about today simply because you expressed your emotions, however inebriated your state at the time. Elizabeth is out of hospital this week, we've no crib at the flat, and a psychopath contacted us from the grave. There are more important happenings than your desire to self-abuse."

John felt smacked across the face by the words. Several emotions warred within ranging from anger to relief, but he lacked the coherency to indulge in multi-syllabic verbalization. Instead he stupidly asked, "a crib?"

"Yes, a crib. Elizabeth's crib. I've arranged for Wiggins to organize several members of my homeless network to move the necessary household and baby items, as well as your clothes, over to the flat today."

"What?" Too many words too fast. John sipped his tea, a small comfort that warmed his belly.

"John, I realize you are hungover, but do focus. We have a lot to accomplish today."

"Right. Yes. So, about these homeless people you are sending to my empty house... to pack my things..."

"No need to worry, John. Wiggins will ensure all goes smoothly."

"Perhaps I should go over..." John was torn. He knew he ought to go pack up the house, seek some closure maybe, ready it to be sold. But, for the life of him, he felt like Sherlock was giving him an out and he couldn't bare to ignore that.

"Entirely unnecessary. I've also obtained the contact details of an excellent realtor, she'll be calling you this afternoon by the way, and -"

"Sherlock," John attempted to intervene.

"And Mrs. Hudson's informed me that Elizabeth will be needing loads of items for which we are woefully under-prepared, I thought we might pop down to a shop on our way -"

"Sherlock," John tried again emphatically.

"-back from our meeting with Lestrade this morning-"

"Sherlock!" John shouted, impeding his pacing.

Sherlock stopped short of colliding with John and raised a curious eyebrow. "Problem?"

"What are you doing?" John was more than a bit hungover and his patience lacking.

"I was just explaining all that we need to do today." The "obviously" was implied.

Perhaps it was the pulsing in his head, and he was aware of the irrationality of it, but John found himself largely miffed that Sherlock assumed he would just be tagging along for whatever nonsense he had in store. Moreover, he was feeling mothered by the man. And just as he felt it, Sherlock seemed to read it in his face and stiffened.

"I've upset you."

"I don't need a caretaker. I'm not a child."

"Sorry." Sherlock looked away. "I just. I -"

John's shoulders slumped and he rubbed his eyes. "Shit." He exhaled deeply through his nose. "No. No, Sherlock, I'm sorry." What the hell was wrong with him? Sherlock had done nothing but show him kindness over the past weeks and John was being entirely ungrateful.

"I don't think that you need me." Sherlock met John's eyes and quickly added, "or anyone."

"I know. I'm sorry. You -" John was guiltier by the second.

"I only meant to -"

"I know." John smiled. "I know."

Sherlock smiled softly, hesitantly. 

"Thank you for checking on Elizabeth. And for taking me in last night. And for the realtor. And... Jesus, Sherlock." John gaped at the taller man incredulously. "I'm so sorry. I'm being an utter shit, aren't I?"

"Nonsense, John. You are accustomed to being 'the responsible one' in this duet. I apologize for any affront to your pride, unintentional though it was."

And it was pride, wasn't it? The responsible one. The soldier. The doctor. John had never been the genius in their partnership, and that was okay, but he had always been the "adult." The reasonable one. And something about Sherlock taking care of him, and yes, John could admit, that was indeed the case, was throwing him for a loop. Putting him off. It felt like a role reversal.

"So, we're meeting Greg?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Lestrade," John clarified, rolling his eyes.

"Ah, yes. He's got a dead body for us."

"Just what you've always wanted. I suppose I'll have a bath first." John attempted to pat his hair down. 

"No time." Sherlock grabbed his scarf and and coat and pushed John towards the door. 

"Oi, oi, you mad man. Let me grab my jumper, at least."

\---

"It just won't stay down," John grimaced from his side of the cab and attempted once again to tame the unruly locks atop his crown. 

Sherlock hid a smirk. He was terribly amused by John's frustration, so much so that he hadn't allowed him time to bathe before leaving for the crime scene. In fact, he quite liked John's dishevelment. He was positively... captivating. A sideways glance at John reminded Sherlock of the previous night. John in his bed. John without trousers in his bed. John who'd tossed and turned fitfully in the night. Sherlock had tried to still him to no avail. Instead, he rode out the storm alongside John. Sherlock sat beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles into the soft cotton t-shirt and warm flesh beneath. John thrashed and turned and turned and turned as if he could find no comfort in the bed or the world. Sherlock simply let him flail, replacing his hand to whatever part of John he could reach upon his repositioning and continued kneading him softly, his laptop on his knees as he worked into the night, typing away with the other hand. Eventually John subdued as Sherlock's hand rested in the blonde and gray fringe across his forehead. Sherlock's fingertips absolutely tingled at the memory. John's forehead was glistening and warm and Sherlock had been overcome with the impulse to press his lips into John's sweat-dampened hair, though he couldn't bring himself to do so. Instead he had stroked his bed-mate's wet hair upward over and over, causing the beautiful tousle currently vexing John but stirring awake some deep-seated excitement in Sherlock. 

_Oh god. Will I ever sleep again for thinking of John Watson in my bed?_ He didn't have time to consider any further as the cab pulled to a stop. 

At the scene, Lestrade was waiting, his face pale and dark circles under his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock's brow furrowed as he studied the Detective Inspector, trying to work it out even as he asked.

"You might want to take a look at this." 

Sherlock and John followed an enervated Lestrade to the taped off area where a forensics team was already taking photographs of the body. As Sherlock approached, he could see a large quantity of blood on the victim's clothing. 

"Stabbing," supplied Lestrade. "Sherlock -"

"Jesus, how many times? That's a hell of a lot of blood," John remarked, still a distance away.

Sherlock crouched over the body. _A tall, dark-haired man. Mid to late 30's. Indoor worker, but athletic. Bruising around the wrists. Rope burns. Where's the entry -_

"Sherlock - " Lestrade interrupted his thoughts and crouched down nearby and lifted the victim's shirt.

Sherlock froze. This man wasn't stabbed. He was mutilated. Skinned. A large letter carved away from the man's skin on his torso.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John moved closer and halted suddenly. "M..."

Sherlock shot up and began scanning the rest of the scene fervently. It was irrational, improbable, but if there were any chance that Moriarty had done this, he needed evidence. 

"Is it him? Moriarty?" John was battle-ready. _Captain Watson._

"Nobody move" Sherlock exclaimed. "Everyone get away from this scene. No one touch anything!"

"Sherlock, what's going on?" Lestrade inquired.

"I can't risk anyone contaminating the scene. Call off your team!"

"Alright, guys. Everyone take a break. Just leave everything where it is, set it all down." 

"Sherlock?" John moved closer to him, practically awaiting orders.

Sherlock crouched again and searched the dead man's pockets, scrutinizing every detail with his magnifier. 

John crouched low as well. "I'd say he's been dead a couple of days now. He -"

"He was alive," Sherlock interrupted. "When the killer mutilated him. Rope burns and bruising on his wrists indicate a struggle -"

"Died of blood loss it seems," John continued.

"He isn't the first," Lestrade interjected. "Another one, last night. He's in the morgue at Bart's."

"We'll meet you there. Just give me a minute." Sherlock paced the area, mentally cataloging the scene. No signs the mutilation occurred in the area, so the body was dumped here. But it wasn't hidden, it was laid out for someone to find. A gift, perhaps. Someone wants their work to be seen. Appreciated. Noticed.

"Sherlock?" John was watching him expectantly. "Is it him?"

"Not really his style. Doesn't like getting his hands dirty, remember?" Sherlock thought of the night at the pool - his first meeting with Moriarty. John. A bomb strapped to John. John ready to die just to take out Moriarty. The intrepid soldier who had survived a war only too ready to again lay down his life in the heat of battle. His blogger and friend and, and... 

"Bart's, then?" 

Sherlock snapped back to reality. "Yes."

\---

Molly was a bundle of nerves as she pulled back the sheet revealing the first victim. Another "M" carved into the torso. Male, blonde, short, athletic, a bit older than the other victim.

_Of course... One tall dark-haired male. One short blonde male. Hardly a coincidence._

"It's meant to be us, isn't it?" John stood over the body, his eyes drinking in the likeness. He gulped down some air. "Jesus."

"Doesn't mean it's him, John." Though the intended recipients of the message was unmistakable. Sherlock's chest ached. John. John on this table. John dead. The man resembled John only in the strictest sense, but Sherlock was rattled all the same. Something icy gripped his very being, shaking him to the core. Everyone met their end inevitably, but would John's continued association with Sherlock bring about this fate? Fear, irrational, consuming, paralyzing fear ravaged him. And Elizabeth. Innocent and precious. Would she too fall victim to Sherlock's constant swirl of chaos? 

"Cause of death: blood loss. He was alive... when..." Molly was wan, her grip trembling the clipboard to which she was clinging.

Sherlock whirled around suddenly and clasped her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. "It _will_ be alright." He meant to reassure Molly, but perhaps himself as well. Both a statement and a question all at once. Would it indeed be alright? One of those lies we tell ourselves when the truth is too ugly, too unappealing. The comfort of the un-truth. 

John stepped forward and placed a hand on Molly's back. "She shouldn't be taking these bodies. Someone else can handle them." 

"No! No. It's fine. I'm fine," Molly stammered, steeling herself as best she could under the circumstances. She met Sherlock's gaze. "It will be alright." And in that moment, she was reassuring _him._

"We'll put officers out by your place," Lestrade offered a weak smile. 

"You and I both know he is dead, Molly. Someone is playing a game with all of us. Moriarty committed suicide on this very roof." Who was he trying to convince - Molly or himself? Sherlock released his grip on her shoulders.

Molly nodded once with a stiff upper lip.

"I need to see where the first body was found."

"Let's go, then." Lestrade led the way out.

\---

Hours later, well into the evening, John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street. Sherlock had been on edge all day and John decided there was no reason to mention the shopping trip they were meant to go on. Hardly mattered at the moment. 

"I should get back to Elizabeth."

"Mmm," Sherlock nodded, his mind elsewhere.

"Right. Well, then. I'll just be -"

"John. You can't stay here."

"Sorry, what?" John was perplexed. "I can't stay? You mean I can't move back in? But you are the one -"

"I know. I know what I said, John. And I meant it, truly. But..." Sherlock's voice was brittle and he moved near the window, his back now to John.

John waited, but Sherlock seemed resigned in his silence. "Stop. Just stop trying to protect me, Sherlock. I know that's what you're doing, so just stop. I'm perfectly -"

"John, just -"

"No, Sherlock. I won't 'just' anything!" John's anger brimmed. He was an adult, damn it all. Stalking across the flat, John pulled Sherlock around to face him. "I don't need you to -"

"I will _never_ stop protecting you!" Sherlock boomed, his eyes stormy.

The outburst caught John off guard and he stepped back a fraction, though he didn't stand down.

"Can't you see, John? Your life was perfectly fine while I was gone! From the moment I returned you've been nearly swallowed up time and time again in my madness and I simply can't risk it. Not again. Not anymore!" Sherlock's voice was almost strangled and there was a desperation in his eyes the likes of which John had never seen. 

"Sherlock..." John began, calculating his words. "The work's always been dangerous. What's changed? Is this about Elizabeth?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it. Nothing came out. 

"I'm not going to simply stop being your friend. That means there will always be danger, where I hang my hat has nothing to do with it. And for the record, my life was not _fine_ while you were off playing dead. You know that." It was a bit more biting than he meant, but they were both on edge. 

"But it wasn't dangerous, John."

"It was empty." The words fell out of John's mouth before realized it, but there was nothing for it now. His cheeks heated and he was acutely grateful for the dimly lit flat and the evening sky outside the window.

For an earth-shatteringly long minute, Sherlock held John's eyes, saying nothing at all. The flat was quiet and even the noise of London below seemed distant. Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his back one moment and the next he was gripping John's shoulders, the space between them disappearing rapidly. John didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He was disembodied, merely observing his own life rather than experiencing it, as Sherlock's face drew in, his penetrating gaze unbroken. Blue eyes searched his own and John tipped his chin up, uncertain what was to come, but trusting all the same. For where Sherlock leads, does he not follow?

"John..." A whisper on Sherlock's lips. He tipped his forehead and pressed it to John's, resting it there, and closed his eyes. "I too know the hollow your absence creates."

The words reverberated to John's very core, an earthquake convulsing the ground of his entire person leaving him shifted and fragmented. Sherlock's skin against his own singed, sparking like a light to a fuse, fast-burning and approaching the dynamite. A bomb threatening to explode and burn up brightly all in its vicinity, taking John with it. He never stood a chance. 

"Sherlock..." John could conjure nothing else from his vocabulary. The man had finally succeeded in consuming all of John's being, stealing the very words off his breath. 

Sherlock slid his hands from John's shoulders up to clasp either side of his head, as if holding John in place, clinging to him, their foreheads still together. An intimate point of contact that felt foreign and new, but not unwelcome. Sherlock's eyes remained closed as he stroked a thumb across John's left temple, soothingly. John couldn't tear his own eyes away from Sherlock's face, their noses nearly touching, the gorgeous bow of Sherlock's mouth so close to his own. Had it always been so stunning?

When Sherlock at last withdrew, the fluttering in John's belly did not immediately subside and he was unexpectedly, achingly disappointed. John's scalp burned where Sherlock's hands had held him and the back of his neck prickled with heat, like flames lapping at his flesh.

"Stay," Sherlock quaked, his darkened eyes boring into John's.

"Yes." John was unsure if Sherlock meant tonight or always. It was rapidly becoming clear his answer was the same, regardless. The notion frightened him and electrified him all at once. John was still planted firmly in place, afraid his legs might give if he tried to move away.

Sherlock nodded once, solemnly. 

Mrs. Hudson rapped on the door, sending John reeling on his heel, turning towards her. Sherlock stepped around him and stood at attention, his face now a mask of indifference.

"Client," she smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **From "Close Your Eyes" by Jump Little Children**
> 
>  
> 
> Tell me the air up here's too thin,  
> You can't feel the wind when it moves.  
> Tell me the stars are made of tin,  
> And that they're banging on the roof.
> 
> Please, close your eyes.  
> Please, if you don't want to say.  
> Please, close your eyes.  
> Please, what keeps you awake?

John made his excuses to escape as the client entered the flat. He did, of course, have to get back to Elizabeth. Sherlock understood, but he couldn't help thinking John would be less eager to leave had Sherlock not been so exceedingly intimate only moments ago. 

"Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry to disturb you. Thank god your address was in the book." The mousy woman began prattling on as Mrs. Hudson exited. But Sherlock had trouble focusing on anything but John.

_I am a fool._

John would have a crisis of sexuality on the cab ride back. He would over-think what had transpired. Would he perhaps wish never to return to Baker Street? Sherlock's stomach sank at the thought.

_All for the best, I suppose..._

Sherlock had indeed wanted John to move back in. At least he thought as much until dead bodies resembling the two of them started appearing with the letter "M" carved out of the torsos. Surely it wasn't Moriarty - but someone. Someone was capitalizing on Moriarty's "reappearance". Now, he was uncertain whether it was in John's best interest to continue his association with Sherlock. 

What the hell had come over him? Sherlock had become increasingly aware that his affection for John was more amorous than friendly, but he had never intended to take action. Being "dead" had compromised his ability to detach, it seemed. Of course, being "dead" had awakened the feelings in the first place. Or, rather, the time alone had made clear a truth to which Sherlock had been oblivious: he loved John Watson. Sherlock loved John in ways the world, himself included, believed him incapable. Wholly. Thoroughly. Unconditionally. Obsessively, perhaps. Possessively, certainly. Consumingly, without a doubt. John Watson had saved him once and then every day after. Over and over, John's presence and acceptance and friendship gave a value to Sherlock's life he hadn't even understood was missing. And in his "death", he had missed that value, missed his John Watson. John had been a light at the end of a two year tunnel, to which Sherlock ran full speed.

But John had got on with his life while Sherlock was away. Of course he had.

"So, can you help, Mr. Holmes?" 

For god's sake. He had barely heard a word. 

"Sorry, yes. You were saying?"

The woman frowned impatiently. "My _son_ , Mr. Holmes. He's gone missing."

"And you haven't gone to the police?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I filed a report, but I know the police go to you with cases."

Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward. "You said he's 18 and he's only been gone since last night. And you've filed a report. I hardly think -"

"You don't understand, Mr. Holmes! He rarely leaves the house at all - certainly not without telling me! Hasn't got any friends. He hasn't got a job. Only just recently started seeing a girl, dunno how they met. Please Mr. Holmes, he's been acting so strangely the past few weeks. It's just not like him. He's my whole world and he's gone missing." The woman began to weep in earnest.

 _"He's my whole world..."_ A sympathetic ache manifested in Sherlock's chest as the woman cried. 

"I'll take the case."

\---

John's cab ride back to the hospital was surreal. He was oddly disconnected from everything, yet somehow still tethered to Sherlock. He couldn't shake him from his thoughts. Sherlock's hands on his skin, their foreheads flush and lips perilously close, and oh my god, how John had actually wanted that... He distinctly tried _not_ to think of these things, but it was extraordinarily difficult to do little else. I mean, sure, he'd always acknowledged that Sherlock was physically attractive. How could he not? Look at the posh bastard! And he could acknowledge that Sherlock had a certain magnetism. Of course he did. He was a genius. He was a giant brain in a beautiful body. A tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, pale, athletic body...

_Oh Christ._

John dropped his forehead into his hands, silently grieving for the days of a life less complicated. Days in which his former-secret-assassin wife hadn't just died a month ago and already he's got the hots for his asexual genius flatmate. Not that his days without Sherlock had been good ones.

_"I too know the hollow your absence creates."_

John could hear the words as though Sherlock were next to him, that baritone rumbling in his ears. A voice that made John tremble and a sentiment that made his heart full. Surely he was misinterpreting this entire scenario. Sherlock was not one for modesty or a respect of personal space, so why shouldn't they touch a bit more than other friends? Admittedly that was the most intimate they'd ever been. But it was emotional. Emotions had been running high lately with all that's gone on. Yes. Yes that must be it, he was certain.

Maybe.

At the hospital, Elizabeth gurgling in his arms, John felt less foggy. He'd overreacted. John would move back to Baker Street and they would carry on solving crimes as before. Basically. A good babysitter might come in handy. And John could return to the clinic. It might be difficult, but he couldn't simply go on without steady work. Yes. Everything could (mostly) return to normal. 

John smiled down over Elizabeth who had been watching him with great interest. He relaxed in the chair with his daughter coddled to his chest. 

"Your godfather and I will take good care of you, love. You've softened him up quite a bit already." He rubbed her back gently, nuzzling and trailing soft kisses atop her crown. "He loves you, you know. He doesn't say it, of course, but he doesn't have to. With Sherlock, you'll find you have to look at the evidence." John smiled, his lips still against Elizabeth's silken hair. 

John tipped his head back, regarding the ceiling, and a bit of déjà vu struck him. 

_"You know, none of us are the people we start out as."_

As John's eyelids grew heavier and heavier, sleep engulfing him, he considered Sherlock's words from the other night. He envisioned them once again lying in Sherlock's bed, side by side and staring skyward.

_"And who were you? Before."_

John tried to remember what Sherlock's response had been to that question, but for the life of him he had no clue.

"Well, I know who I was before you," John mused aloud to no one, his eyes shutting at last.

_"I was so alone... and I owe you so much."_

\---

**Elizabeth's discharged today.**

**Wiggins has upheld his promise and your things have arrived safely at Baker Street. -SH**

**Perfect. Did you take on that client last night?**

**Yes. En route to her home to investigate. -SH**

\---

John and Elizabeth arrived at Baker Street just after lunch to find Mrs. Hudson eagerly awaiting them in the flat with open arms. She cooed over Elizabeth as John unpacked their bags from the hospital, sorting dirty laundry and putting away the many gifts Elizabeth had received during her time there. 

"She's got so big already, John," Mrs. Hudson rejoiced.

John smiled as he set about to sterilizing bottles. "Thank you for welcoming us back, Mrs. H. I know you didn't exactly expect to have a baby in this flat when we moved in."

Mrs. Hudson waved a dismissive hand. "Don't be silly. A little femininity is just what we need 'round here, isn't that right?" she said to Elizabeth, who had no comment one way or the other, but offered a bit of drool for good measure.

"Is that what we need?" John smirked and, with a silent prayer, opened the fridge. To his astonishment, it was clean. The cleanest it had been since...well, since he moved in the _first_ time. "Oh, Mrs. H, the fridge looks perfect. Ta for that."

"Not me, dear," she grinned knowingly. "Sherlock did it himself, if you can believe it. I came up here to pick up his mess before you arrived and he'd already scrubbed up the kitchen. I thought I got it wrong and you were already here."

Once John managed to lift his jaw off the kitchen floor, he stashed away a few pre-made bottles into the fridge on a shelf marked "Elizabeth". Written in Sherlock's scrawl, no less. All the way at the bottom he noted there was a drawer marked "Sherlock - NOT FOOD". John laughed, shaking his head.

"John, couldn't you do with a kip? Maybe a bath? You've been at that hospital so much, you must be knackered. A little relaxation could do you some good." Mrs. Hudson looked concerned, as ever.

"I suppose. But I've got shopping to do. There's hardly any food in the house and I haven't got a crib for Elizabeth." 

"Oh! Sherlock didn't tell you? His brother sent over some gifts."

"Mycroft did?" John was perplexed.

"Put Sherlock in a right foul mood. Those two boys..." she trailed off, shaking her head and bouncing Elizabeth in her arms.

John grinned and bounded up the stairs to his room. A lovely, and expensive John suspected, crib was already set up and a few toys and necessities rested inside. Atop the gifts was a note: "Welcome back, John. - MH"

John was deeply pleased that the crib was already set up, no doubt by a delivery company and not Mycroft himself. Mycroft doing DIY, now that would be far more surreal than John could digest, which was saying a lot considering the week he was having. After inspecting the gifts, he turned his attention to the bedroom. As Sherlock promised, his things were all in their original places. Of course Sherlock would remember his room better than he did, he mused. 

John sat at the edge of his bed, eyes wandering the room, taking it all in. His life seemed to come full circle. Was that regression, he wondered? Perhaps it was more like the ocean. Waves crashing against sand, washing away some bits, depositing others. Bringing forward something new and carrying away something old. His half-arsed internal metaphors were disrupted by Elizabeth's wails of displeasure from downstairs.

"I think she misses her father." Mrs. Hudson passed Elizabeth to John, but she continued to wail.

"Probably time to eat," he remarked, heading to the fridge to fetch a bottle. "Could do with a meal myself."

"I'll make us some lunch, shall I? You can feed the little one and then go on and have a bath." 

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. You're a saint."

\---

That evening Sherlock took the stairs two at a time up to the flat, both eager and nervous to see John and Elizabeth. At home. They were _home._ Now just outside the doorway, Sherlock paused briefly before entering. He smoothed his jacket, ruffled his hair, and lowered his coat collar, steeling himself.

The picturesque domesticity awaiting him inside nearly took his breath away. John was seated on the floor between their two chairs with Elizabeth, who was lying face up on her blanket and squirming. Her tiny hands flapped about as she sucked diligently on a pacifier and kicked her petite legs. John ducked down quickly to kiss Elizabeth's cheeks and chin, stopping to take her hand to his lips and kiss that as well. Mrs. Hudson sat behind John in his chair and passed him tea and they laughed softly about something unknown. Soft light from the window filtered in the evening sky and set aglow the blonde hair shared by the Watsons. John looked positively euphoric. Fatherhood suited him. 

It was... gorgeous. Sherlock's heart swelled. Could this really be for him? This new and precious warmth and love in 221B? Or would his cold, sharp presence only serve to diminish this perfect tableau of happiness? 

Having gone unnoticed, Sherlock took a step backwards to retreat, suddenly feeling as if he were intruding in his own flat. He could never fit in this scene properly, he dismayed. A floorboard creaked beneath him and John gazed up from Elizabeth, her tiny hand still in his grasp, to catch Sherlock's eyes. 

_Damn._

A few agonizing seconds passed, and then John's face broke almost in half with a smile that Sherlock was certain would dissolve him into a puddle where he stood. Sherlock couldn't help but reciprocate, as any hesitation he felt dissipated almost entirely. 

Perhaps this could indeed be his life.

\---

"So, he has no friends, no job, a girlfriend somehow -"

"Met online," Sherlock interjected.

"Ah, right. And his mum thinks he's gone missing." John tapped away at a draft blog entry from his spot on the floor. His first entry since before his wedding. Elizabeth gurgled and cooed softly nearby on her blanket.

"But he doesn't appear to have been abducted." 

"Oh?" John furrowed his brow.

"I observed that he packed a bag," Sherlock supplied.

"Okay. I don't get it. Could have gone to a friends? Out to a party? Why does the mother think something's wrong?" 

"He's almost a shut-in most days. Barely leaves the house, you should see the state of his room. And the stench of it! I meant to take his laptop with me to view his files. His mother was alarmed he left it behind at all." Sherlock crinkled his nose. "Unfortunately, I was called away in the middle of my investigation and left it behind." Sherlock hesitated, eying John. "Lestrade found another body."

"Oh?" John attempted nonchalance, but stopped his typing. He didn't want to upset Sherlock again. Or perhaps he did. The resulting conversation had been... interesting. John glanced up to find Sherlock studying him. _Oh god. Could he tell?_ John resumed his typing, eyes back on his screen with determination.

"Yes, another 'M' carved out. Same scenario. Dumped in plain sight, mutilated while still alive at a different location."

John cleared his throat. "No witnesses, then?"

"No. Nothing else connecting the victims other than their -" Sherlock halted, swallowing softly. "Well, their appearance. Another dark-haired, tall male, mid to late thirties."

"So I'm next," John scoffed darkly, which comment elicited a mildly horrified look from Sherlock. "Sorry. Just...another me. Not _me._ "

Sherlock, seated in his chair with fingers steepled below his nose didn't spare John a glance, but muttered softly from behind his hands, "there is no other."

John felt flushed and could only look at his feet on the floor in front of him. He didn't conceal his smile, however. "Sherlock -"

"Well," Sherlock interrupted, standing quickly. "I trust your room is just as you like it?"

"Uh, yes. Yes, it's exactly how I remember it. You know, except with a crib." John stood as well, although less nimbly than his flatmate. He'd been on the floor for quite some time. "Guess we'll be off to bed then." John scooped up Elizabeth and cradled her gently. He turned to leave, but couldn't will his legs forward.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock was behind him, still standing near his own chair. 

"I'm glad to be home." John closed his eyes momentarily, bracing himself. _Just say it._ "With you."

Silence.

John was feeling a bit foolish as the seconds ticked by until Sherlock slipped an arm around him. Slender fingers gripped John's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. Sherlock pressed in close, his chest against John's back as he peered over down at Elizabeth and smiled. 

["As am I, John."](http://halflock.tumblr.com/post/80311219072/week-5-6-the-fic-deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet-wrote)

Relief washed over John and he basked in the warmth of Sherlock's body flushed against his own. John swayed backward minutely, relaxing into Sherlock. He thought he might stay just so, forever, if he could.

A few blissful moments passed before Sherlock dropped his hand and his voice rumbled in John's ears, "Good night, Watsons."

Sherlock then sat down at the table and opened his laptop, tapping away at his keyboard in the harsh glow of the screen.

John retreated upstairs and put Elizabeth to bed. He stepped out of his jeans and unbuttoned his shirt before slipping under his cool sheets, a feeling he hadn't experienced in far too long. One of many unfamiliar experiences of the evening. John closed his eyes and definitely did not think about the warmth of Sherlock's breath on his ear. 

Except he did, a little.

\---

Sherlock quietly climbed the stairs to John’s room. Pressing a hand against his bedroom door, he drew near to listen to the thrashing inside. Sherlock gently turned the knob and crept in on silent, long legs. The blue-gray paleness of London poured in through the nearby window, accenting the pained lines of John’s face, his brows stitched together in distress as he slept fitfully. 

Four or five quick steps across the room and Sherlock stood toweringly over John, silently observing him roll from his side onto his back, breathing out heavily through his nose, grimacing. Sherlock turned his back to the wall, propping up against it, and slowly lowered his hand towards John’s forehead. He paused just millimeters away from touching, his fingers twitching lightly in hesitation and want. He'd already made John feel uncomfortable, likely more than once, in the last 24 hours. Would this be crossing a line? Sherlock wasn't always sure about those symbolic lines. His hand dropped and rested softly in John's hair, the now-familiar texture under the pads of his fingers. Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably, his mouth drying out a bit. It felt a little wrong, somehow. The last time Sherlock watched over John sleeping, they had been in his own bed. Now he was in John's room, unknown to John. 

Sherlock trailed his thumb through John's fringe. It occurred to him he could do this every night now. Still John in his fitful sleep and enjoy the pleasant feeling in his stomach elicited by the touch of his hand to John's head. Unfortunately, work needed doing, and he couldn't simply stand about unproductive. Sherlock stiffened his back, raised his chin and blinked rapidly in the darkened room as he attempted to reign in his focus. He stood dutifully at attention against the wall, a silent protector over John, his hand still caressing, and stared blankly ahead in the darkness. Sherlock, hand stroking John's hair absently, retreated into his mind palace.

Some time later, a small cry from across the room startled Sherlock back into consciousness. He blinked repeatedly trying to recall where the hell he was and glanced down at his left hand resting in John's hair, frowning in confusion at this own thumb which had been rubbing small circles into John’s scalp. Another cry interrupted his thoughts, this time louder. 

_Elizabeth._ That damned (adorable) baby was going to wake John who had at last reached his REM cycle. Sherlock pushed off the wall, his back and legs stiff - he must have been gone in his mind a while - and crossed the room to fetch Elizabeth. They retreated downstairs before she could make another peep.

Large blue eyes atop tear-stained cheeks stared up at Sherlock as he grimaced down at the squirming bundle in his arms.

“No need for tears, little one,” Sherlock whispered matter-of-factually, running a thumb across her rounded cheeks to dry them. “You’ll wake John, and as you’re to learn he can be quite insufferable and infinitely useless without proper sleep.” 

Sherlock crossed the room to his chair, “I, however, require far less sleep to fuel a superior mind. Now,” Sherlock settled in his seat, “what might we deduce about your father from that?”

Elizabeth shrieked in protest. 

“Alright, alright!” Sherlock panicked and stood again quickly, pacing the floor. 

Elizabeth silenced at once and Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t even see any tears this time,” Sherlock smirked as she sniffled up at him.

“Clever Lizzie, are you learning to manipulate me?” She had no immediate retort.

Resignedly, Sherlock raised his brows, admitting, “I suppose my wit is wasted on you at this juncture in your small life. Besides, it's a well-established fact that Watsons tend to have an occasional influence on me. I trust you’ll keep that between us,” he winked. She made no such promise, but balled a fist in his general direction. Sherlock decided that was close enough.

When an hour of pacing and reading from his favorite scientific journal and more pacing and a traumatizing nappy change that neither of them would ever care to acknowledge and a bottle did not tire Elizabeth, Sherlock grew weary and groaned, “you’re more trouble than I anticipated. I can hardly be expected to return to my work with you in my arms. Please be reasonable, Lizzie.” 

She was clearly unimpressed and had apparently vowed to never sleep again.

Sherlock paused his pacing and cinched his eyes shut tightly. _Think!_ His brain screamed for the answer, but his data on putting babies to bed was rather limited. 

_Fine, not hungry. Nappy changed. Hates scientific journals. Or loves them. Perhaps it was too fascinating, too stimulating to allow her to sleep?_ Sherlock preferred to believe the latter. 

“Oh.” His eyes widened and his face lit up. “Oh!” He beamed again, pleased with his own stroke of genius.

Sherlock gingerly nudged his chair across the floor towards John’s until the edges of the seat cushions were flush, creating a mismatched but safe enclosure in which to lay Elizabeth down. He then turned on his heel from the makeshift crib and retrieved his violin.

Tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes but Sherlock made haste, commencing "Brahms Lullaby" as the first cry ripped from her throat. The docile tones filled the flat and she seemed momentarily appeased. Sherlock peeped down on her and was met with large, unblinking eyes and contentment. 

As the song approached its end, Elizabeth's heavy lids already threatened to close. Sherlock crouched slowly, seating himself on the floor as he began "Clair de Lune". He hummed softly along, his back against John's seat, and his goddaughter laying quietly sprawled across both chairs.

Elizabeth slept. And John slept. And Sherlock blissfully played well into the night, his violin singing out sweetly, soothingly for the two people he loved most in the world.

His family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artistic rendition of John, Sherlock, and Elizabeth by the fantabulous **halflock** , [here.](http://halflock.tumblr.com/post/80311219072/week-5-6-the-fic-deathfrisbeeofbakerstreet-wrote)
> 
> A beautiful performance (including piano accompaniment) of [Brahms Lullaby.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u86Pz2UrQUE)
> 
> A beautiful performance (including piano accompaniment) of [Clair de Lune.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKd0VII-l3A)
> 
> Musical inspiration for the scene in which Sherlock stands near John's bed and silently comforts him (as well as the title of this work) comes from ["Close Your Eyes" by Jump Little Children.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nR3AjN692o) This happens to be the first scene of the entire fic that I wrote, including the bits afterward with Elizabeth. It's largely unchanged from it's inception other than a few tweaks. It was important to me to capture what I feel is representative of Sherlock's feelings for John, i.e., a love in which Sherlock will do, rather than say, anything for his John. He doesn't need praise or recognition or acknowledgement, because that's not how he loves. Sherlock seeks only to be there for him, even if it's unbeknownst to John, even if it's unrequited. Because Sherlock does and can indeed love. It's a love that, I think, whether you ship Johnlock or not, everyone can accept as true of these two men who time and time again save each other, burn for each other, risk all for each other, and rarely a word passes between them about it. It is merely the dynamics of their whole as John and Sherlock.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a long moment, the pair simply _looked_ at one another. Their heartbeats and breaths whispering, conspiring, sharing their secrets and all they couldn't verbalize.

John stretched and groaned into wakefulness, heaving a great sigh at the ceiling. He hadn't slept so pleasantly in at least month. He glanced at his clock in confusion, surprised to find he had slept uninterrupted until half 10. 

_Elizabeth._

Leaping from the bed, John stumbled towards the crib, concerned that she hadn’t awakened him. _Not there. What the…_

“Sherlock!” John called out as he gracelessly pounded downstairs, his legs still wobbly from sleep. 

“Sher-” John paused in his tracks, his breath lost momentarily as his brain attempted to wrap itself around the sight before him. Sherlock was seated on the floor, back propped against John's chair, head lolled back on the arm, and his legs spread out long and inelegantly in front of him. He was fast asleep in his pajamas and red dressing gown, violin bow in his lap. 

John approached slowly, collected the violin and bow, careful not to disturb Sherlock, and placed them safely on the table.

Elizabeth gurgled softly from her mock crib composed of their two chairs pushed together, one of which held up the world's only, lightly snoring, consulting detective. Something about the sight of the two of them, Sherlock like a child who stayed up past his bedtime and Elizabeth nestled happily in their favorite spots, evoked an absurdly saccharine response. He was torn between snapping a photo to text Lestrade versus picking up his newborn and making tea. He half-smiled, warmed by Sherlock’s consideration. The spectacle before him was, well, precious, and John thought he’d never seen Sherlock look so very young as he did at that moment. Feeling brave and a bit self-indulgent, John reached down to brush the unruly dark curls out of Sherlock's eyes, his fingers lingering a moment or two longer than entirely necessary.

“Come on you, you’ve nearly done him in,” whispered John with a grin. He lifted Elizabeth, who merely blink in wide-eyed innocence as he kissed her blonde head. They retreated to the kitchen to start the kettle before returning upstairs for a nappy change. 

Once downstairs again, John found Sherlock seated at the table near the window and typing away at his laptop. Their chairs had been returned to the usual spots and John felt a small tug of disappointment. 

He shook it off and strode into the room. “Tea?” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock nodded but didn’t look up from his screen. 

John drew his eyebrows together in thought, wondering if he should thank Sherlock, let alone mention it at all. 

“Hold her while I fetch us some?” John leaned over Sherlock to rest Elizabeth in his arms. 

Sherlock said nothing, but accepted Elizabeth willingly, so John set about fixing their tea and hunting down biscuits.

“Shall I take her back?” John inquired a few minutes later as he laid out their spread.

“No. She’s… we’re fine.” Sherlock smiled and Elizabeth continued to stare up at Sherlock as if he was the most interesting thing in the world. And often he was, John mused. 

“Besides, Lizzie is occupied. She is learning about ash. At least _someone_ is interested in it.” He winked at the baby, as if she was in on the joke. She waved a fist in confirmation.

John paused with his teacup midway to his lips and gaped up at Sherlock. “Lizzie?”

“Just trying it out. I think she likes it.” Sherlock looked down with what John thought might have been embarrassment. 

“Yes. Right.” John smiled knowingly. “I like it as well.” And John did. Moreover, he liked that Sherlock continued to surprise him, even to this day. And that he had so affectionately given his daughter a nickname.

His admiration of the consulting babysitter was cut short as cries erupted from Elizabeth (or Lizzie, yes, that was growing on him already - but perhaps he'd save it as something special for Sherlock only). Her face reddened and her fists flapped about in displeasure.

“What is she doing?” Sherlock frowned, horrified.

“She’s less interested in ash than you thought, I s’pose.” John went to warm a bottle.

“Does she need to eat again? She never stops.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Yes, well, they do that. Babies," John retorted, carrying Lizzie's breakfast. "Would you like to -"

Sherlock snatched the bottle from John and corked Lizzie expertly. 

"Well, I'll just have you babysit then, shall I? You two seem to be getting on."

"Why would we need a sitter?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused. John couldn't help but smile at the _we_.

"She can't go to work with me, Sherlock." John sat across from him and sipped at his tea.

"You mean the clinic." 

"I mean the clinic."

"We've got plenty of cases, John. You don't need to return to the clinic. You were terribly bored there, anyway." Sherlock was watching Elizabeth gulp and dribble and John couldn't help but admire just how oddly natural he looked. Not an adjective John would have conjured before now.

"Yes. Well." Sherlock was right, of course. John had seen his inbox lately, it was bursting, and the clinic work had been dull to say the least. "Alright. Well, that may be true, but I'll still need a sitter."

"Lizzie won't be a problem at crime scenes," he rejoined with all the seriousness in the world. Sherlock obviously meant it.

John gawked momentarily, stunned wordless. Then he burst into giggles. 

"Problem?" Sherlock inquired almost defensively.

"You _have_ gone soft. Or mental." John's giggles slowly subsided but his smile remained. 

Sherlock was silent a few seconds before a grin broke his stoic mask and his deep, infectious laughter exploded, bouncing his shoulders and lighting his eyes. John's giggles returned immediately.

And so the morning went. Sherlock and John trading off holding Lizzie occasionally. Sherlock deducing to her about their current cases, as if she might weigh in with something brilliant. John shaking his head and smiling from behind his paper, sneaking glances at his friend and thoroughly enjoying the increasingly familiar affection and the wash of domestic bliss. At one point, Sherlock stretched his leg out under the table and rested his foot below John's chair. Sherlock's calf settled against the side of John's and in his absolute euphoria, he simply enjoyed the contact rather than question its meaning. He was contentment personified. 

Eventually, although contentment was lovely, John grew antsy. Sherlock had not been exactly forthcoming with all the details about the Moriarty case. Perhaps he'd have to take a direct approach. 

"So the body, two days ago. You said it was the same as the others?" 

"Yes," Sherlock answered gravely. He offered nothing more.

"Sherlock, don't leave me out of this one. I understand your reasons, but if I can help... the sooner we catch this guy, the better we'll sleep at night."

Sherlock sighed. "Tall, thin, dark curly hair. The other victims were apparently drugged with chloroform and brought to a nearby location for the... mutilation. However, he administered a drug with a needle this time."

"Changing his method?" 

"Improving. Honing his skill. The skinning has become less messy, more _elegant._ Stylized, if you will."

"So, a needle. Possibly has access to medical supplies, then?"

"Perhaps, and we found tire tracks at the last scene. Larger vehicle."

"Hmm," John contemplated.

"There still doesn't appear to be a pattern in the locations he dumps the bodies. Families of the victims have no connections that I've seen, yet."

"He's just targeting people that look like us."

"Mmm, appears that way so far," Sherlock nodded.

John let out a shaky breath, part fear, part anger. 

"John, it's not him."

"Doesn't matter, does it?" John sighed. "We're still the targets of _someone_."

"I had Mycroft put people near the flat. We're being watched 24/7." Sherlock adjusted a sleeping Elizabeth, settling her head against his shoulder, her stomach to his chest. He clung protectively and rested his cheek against hers. "You can still leave. Move somewhere safer." Even as Sherlock said it, he closed his eyes and stroked Elizabeth's back, as if he couldn't bear the loss.

John's heart threatened to shatter. 

"No. I'm not going to live in fear." John wanted to reach for Sherlock's hands, but they were full of his daughter. "We're going to catch this bastard. Together." 

Sherlock nodded once and rose, again pushing together their chairs. He placed Elizabeth securely to rest in their favorite spots and turned toward John.

"Let's get to work, then," he smiled.

\---

An hour later, Lizzie fully rested and gurgling happily in John's arms, Sherlock had added new details to their wall about the Moriarty case. Victim names, gruesome photos, notes, a map indicating the locations of bodies found and victims' homes.

"I can't see the connection," Sherlock groaned frustratedly. 

"Connection? The victims?" 

"No, the computer hacking. Moriarty's face everywhere. Why haven't we received anything else?"

"We've received bodies," John deadpanned.

"Bodies, yes. Messages, maybe. But no more videos or computer images."

"I thought that was just to keep you here in London?"

"Yes, I still believe it was. But then nothing for weeks, and suddenly bodies." Sherlock paced the room, gesturing and mumbling. "The video prevented my exile. But why not a body with a message on it? The video was meant to be a spectacle for all - otherwise the hacker wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to get it on _every_ screen in the country. But the bodies. The bodies are for us. For The Yard. He's not leaving them in places for the entire world to see, just for us. This is personal, dramatic, but not the same theatrics as the video. Less spotlight than before. Usually dramatic criminals with an axe to grind get more and more theatrical, just as his mutilations are improving, so too should the theatrics."

"Moriarty's certainly did," John conceded.

"It's not Moriarty," Sherlock repeated.

"Sorry. I know. Just, it's hard not to relate the two."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock conceded. And then, stricken by lightning, Sherlock bolted up. _Yes, of course._ "John!" he exclaimed. 

John raised an eyebrow.

Once again, John had unwittingly inspired him. Sherlock almost leaped for joy.

"That's it, exactly!"

"What's it, Sherlock?" John asked as he bounced Lizzie gently.

"I've been hindered by viewing these two matters as related because of the connection to us and Moriarty and the timing. But all the signs indicate otherwise. I've simply been trying to _force_ it to make sense - which is precisely why it makes none!" Sherlock encroached into John's space excitedly. John's pupils dilated instantly, which inflamed Sherlock's excitement all the more. He loved when John was as stimulated as he.

"So, they're not related? You think -"

"It's not the same person!" Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and pulled him close. "The hacker is not the murderer! John, the murderer used the hacker's actions to throw us off. He's just looking for a bit of attention, maybe has an obsession with Moriarty or us, or both. Either way, he's an opportunist." He swooped low and kissed Lizzie on the cheek, plucking her away from John. "Your father is most illuminating today, Lizzie!" Sherlock spun round and held the bright-eyed baby in front of his face, landing another enthusiastic kiss, this time on the opposite cheek. He plopped Lizzie back safely into John's arms, who was watching him with the strangest smile.

"I've got to call Lestrade."

\---

Sherlock had gone down to The Yard an hour ago, leaving John and Elizabeth behind. Said he wouldn't be long. John was not accustomed to being so far removed from cases and found it increasingly irksome. He knew, of course, that it was just the nature of being a father now, and he certainly wouldn't trade Elizabeth for the world, but it was an adjustment. Sherlock had left him out of things before, or sent John off on his own, even, if the case hadn't merited Sherlock putting on pants. But this was different. This was just a new _way_. Yes, a trusted babysitter might be worth looking into. In just a couple of months, Elizabeth would be rolling over and before the end of the year, she'd be crawling about. She was going to be a handful once mobile and John thought it wise to begin his search as soon as possible. 

John's phone flashed

**Message from Wiggins: missing boy's laptop gone. Mother hasn't seen it. - SH**

**Stolen?**

**Seems unlikely. Meet at the client's house? - SH**

**I've just told you this morning I can't take my baby to a crime scene.**

**And I've told you, she won't be any trouble. Besides, it's not a crime scene. - SH**

John could imagine his smirk clear as day. Another text pinged immediately. 

**Do you really think I'd put Lizzie in harm's way? - SH**

No. John knew better. Sherlock loved Elizabeth, fiercely so. 

**I'm on my way. Text the address.**

\---

Sherlock had not previously exaggerated about the smell of this boy's, Liam's, room. He clearly did stay in there often. Dishes piled high on his desk, which was also covered in papers and books and comics, and laundry was strewn about the room. Mrs. Harris apologized profusely for the state of it, and seemed only slightly alarmed that a baby had accompanied them on the investigation. 

"Cor," John grimaced softly and waved his hand, wafting away the funk from him and Elizabeth, who was sucking peacefully on her pacifier.

Sherlock, unphased, set to work immediately rummaging through the boy's things. 

"You didn't hear anyone break in last night and nothing else has been taken." It wasn't a question.

"No, Mr. Holmes. When I got home from work I noticed it was missing. I don't know where it's gone to."

"I do." Sherlock smirked as he sorted through some papers on Liam's desk.

John wasn't surprised.

"You do?" Mrs. Harris asked, dubiously.

"You said yourself you were shocked your son had left behind his computer. There are no signs of a break-in in or around the house, much less this room. And someone knew your schedule well enough to take it while you were off at work. Your son has a house key, I presume?" Sherlock whirled from the desk to the client, studying her reaction.

"Liam? Yes, course he does. You think it was Liam? So he's alright?" She looked cautiously relieved.

"I'd say so. But there's something on his laptop he doesn't want to share. Damn!" Sherlock clenched his fist around some papers. "Can't believe I left it behind. Idiot." 

"Do you know much about your son's hobbies? What sort of thing he did on his computer?" John inquired, absently stroking Elizabeth's hair.

"Oh goodness no. Don't know much about computers, myself. I don't even have a telly. Just Liam's."

"I see," John responded, looking about the room for some clue.

Sherlock was crouched over a pile of books, one of the most orderly spots in the entire room. "You said your son isn't in school? He's read all these books, some quite recently. A few of them multiple times." Sherlock was checking the spines and flipping pages. "He's taken notes. That his writing?" He handed a particularly hefty book to Liam's mother.

"Yes, that's him. He wants to know about _everything_ , that boy," she smiled fondly. "Like you, I suppose." 

"Mmm." Sherlock nodded. "What time was your shift today?"

"I worked a half day. Was only out from about noon until half 5. Your... friend was waiting for me when I got home. To pick the computer up for you." 

_Friend? Ah yes, Billy. Sherlock's new gopher._

"It's gone 7 now, he might not have made it too far," John supplied. 

Elizabeth spit out her pacifier in disagreement and it landed with a plop on the floor. John frowned and decided he'd simply discard that one altogether.

"Right. I'd like to take some of his books and notes, if you don't mind." Sherlock gathered up materials and collected them neatly in his arms. "Also, a photo of your son, please. Recent as you can."

"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Holmes, and um, I'm sorry, it was?" 

"John Watson," he smiled. "And Elizabeth."

\---

On the way home, Sherlock pored over Liam's books, scrutinizing the pages with handwritten notes meticulously. Elizabeth in her carrier, who had fared well without her pacifier until now, grew upset and fussed. John made a mental note to bring more than one pacifier in the future. Or get one of those clips that keeps it attached to her clothes. 

He stroked her thin blonde hair and whispered, "there now, love. It's alright. We'll be home soon. Shhh."

On the other side of the cab, Sherlock turned a page with one hand, eyes focused on the book in his lap. With the other hand, he reached out absently to Elizabeth and grasped a tiny fist, his thumb stroking the back of her hand and fingers. Elizabeth's reddened face softened and although she was clearly still displeased with the world, she seemed slightly less so.

John watched Sherlock unabashedly and marveled once again at how completely natural he looked with a baby. He thought about little Archie's infatuation with Sherlock at the wedding. How he had always been bluntly honest with, but never unkind to a child. And how absolutely besotted Sherlock was with Elizabeth.

"Have you ever wanted kids?" John heard his own words as if someone else had said it. It just sort of came out.

Sherlock crinkled his nose and glanced up in confusion at John from the book he was studying. He blinked a few times as if considering and then gazed down at Elizabeth, who was finally soothed and now watching him in return, raptly. Sherlock continued to stroke her hand with his thumb and did not break their little shared moment.

Eventually, when Sherlock still did not answer, only continuing to watch Elizabeth, John thought he maybe crossed some line he was unaware of. He cleared his throat and decided to just leave it.

After several minutes of silence the cab arrived at Baker Street. Sherlock released Elizabeth's hand, gathering the books and papers in his lap, and departed without a word. 

\---

At the flat, John ate a quiet dinner with Elizabeth while Sherlock retreated into his Mind Palace. He puttered around, doing some laundry, washing up, checking his emails. He changed, bathed, and read to Elizabeth as Sherlock remained in his head for a couple of hours.

Disheartened, as if he had ruined the mood of what had otherwise been a lovely and productive day, John withdrew upstairs and put Elizabeth, equipped with a fresh pacifier and her blanket, in the crib. As she settled in, John sorted through her toys and gifts, designating space in his room for her things. A mobile for her crib, which he'd figure out later. A small mound of stuffed animals and things that squeaked, and teething toys for later on. And oh the clothes. So many clothes. Of course, most of Elizabeth's clothes swallowed her, being a petite preemie, but she would grow into them quick enough. John pulled out a drawer in his dresser and emptied its contents. Socks, pants, undershirts. They could be stuffed into a different drawer. John unloaded a bag of pastel pinks and yellows into the newly empty drawer. Tiny socks and ruffled bottoms and onesies filled the space. A bit of lavender in the pile caught his eye and he snatched it up. A lavender dress complete with layered ruffles and a white bow in the back. It was a dress Mary had picked out after the scan revealed they were having a girl. 

John sat on his bed and clutched the dress to his chest, staring down at it. 

_Oh Mary. You should see her. She's beautiful._

"It's a lovely color, but I'm not sure it's your style."

John, startled by Sherlock's sudden appearance, dropped the dress into his lap. 

"Yeah. Not sure I have the hips for it," John quipped, mildly.

Sherlock was looming in John's doorway and let out a small chuckle. He crossed to Elizabeth's crib first, instinctively checking on her. It made John's heart flutter each time he witnessed Sherlock's tenderness and unique but inherent paternal nature. Then Sherlock sat on the edge of John's bed, back ramrod straight, hands on his knees, and gaze directly on the open drawer across from him holding baby clothes.

"I never considered them."

 _What? What is he? Oh._

"Kids?" John asked.

"It was clear to me, and the rest of the world, from a rather early age that I did not... acclimate with others well. I am not now nor have I ever been in a position in which I had reason to consider children. Or marriage." Sherlock still did not meet John's eye-line. "Didn't even expect a best friend, as you know." 

_The world_ Sherlock had said. John was pained thinking of Sherlock so alone and misunderstood even as a child.

"Have you really never been in any sort of relationship?" It was more rhetorical than anything, as he was almost certain Sherlock had just implied the answer. John immediately regretted the question.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock turned his head toward John fractionally, but still kept his eyes averted.

"No." And it didn't. John folded Elizabeth's tiny dress in his lap.

"No," Sherlock said at last.

A confirmation of what John had suspected shouldn't have surprised him, but it did still. Moreover, it hurt him. John had seen Sherlock's capacity for love. His loyalty. His charm. John knew that Sherlock had trouble _dealing_ with his emotions. But he had them. Sherlock's emotions might run deeper than even his own, John thought. The man could get into people's heads, understand them, analyze them, break them apart. Of course he could _feel._ He was more in tune with human emotion than anyone John knew. 

The bed creaked next to John and he realized Sherlock was leaving the room. John jumped up and reached out to grab his arm but gripped his hand instead. Sherlock halted, still one foot out the door. The man was ready to sprint, it seemed.

"Don't," John said. "It doesn't matter. Remember? It's all fine."

Sherlock said nothing.

John held Sherlock's hand in both of his now and pulled him back, urging him to return. Anchoring Sherlock to him. 

"For the record," John began as Sherlock allowed himself to be sat on the bed again, "you are wonderful with Elizabeth." He stood in front of Sherlock's knees watching down the top of his unruly curls.

Sherlock, who had very much looked like a child awaiting a scolding, lifted his face to John at last. He studied John, as if discerning whether John was being honest.

"You are," John affirmed with a smile.

"She's a Watson. Must be genetics," Sherlock shrugged.

"You think Watsons are simply born to put up with Holmeses?" 

"Not born to, no. But perhaps acquired it as a special skill over time. We don't know _everything_ about evolution, John," smirked Sherlock.

John burst into laughter and Sherlock followed suit. Elizabeth stirred in her crib and they both slapped palms over their respective mouths, stifling the giggling. Of course, _trying_ not to laugh only makes a scenario that much more unbearably hilarious, and Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, biting his bottom lip, desperate not to laugh again. John stood over him still, his own laughter subsiding. He couldn't help admiring the beauty of Sherlock's smiles. Delighted crinkles erupted near his eyes like cracked porcelain. His irises sparkled, starbursts in pale moonlight. 

Oh, how John desperately wanted to be the cause of all Sherlock's laughter. How he loved to make Sherlock smile. How he wanted Sherlock to know the void left behind in his death. How John wanted to hold him and tell him that he didn't have to be alone, never again. That he could see it in Sherlock, the loneliness, the isolation. John understood because he had been alone as well before. Before Sherlock. 

Oh, how John loved Sherlock.

And there it was - an acknowledgement of what had been true for so long. John was in love with Sherlock Holmes. His best friend in the world. It had been so for a while, but he hadn't seen it. Or maybe he hadn't wanted to see it. The realization snapped like a firecracker inside him, jolting him. John's face dropped, suddenly quite sobered.

"Sherlock," John began timidly. How would he finish this sentence? How would he make clear to Sherlock what was in his heart without... without risking everything?

Sherlock was still half-smiling, though the laughter was gone from his eyes. John placed a hand on his knee. That was still friendly. Still safe. Close, but not too much. Not enough, maybe.

 _Just say it._ "You never have to be alone. Not again," John said softly, squeezing Sherlock's knee.

The last semblance of a smile dwindled from Sherlock's face. He was no longer cracked porcelain, but cold, hard marble. Pale and glinting and stone. He looked down at John's hand.

"Hey," John whispered, encouraging. He wanted, needed, Sherlock to see it, to hear it. To know what John meant, what he couldn't say. _Deduce it, Sherlock. Look at me._

"I mean it. I'm here. If you want me. _Always._ " 

John knew, not just believed. It was fact. He would never again leave Sherlock's side. 

For a long moment, the pair simply _looked_ at one another. Their heartbeats and breaths whispering, conspiring, sharing their secrets and all they couldn't verbalize. And John, knowing that Sherlock had touched, held, caressed him before, now wanted to return the favor.

John released Sherlock's knee and pressed a hand to his cheek. Sherlock's skin was flushed and he closed his eyes for a moment under the touch. John savored the intimacy, suddenly greedy for more. He felt urged to pull Sherlock closer, envelop him. To _keep_ him.

And when John thought he might tremble with the need to have _more_ , Sherlock placed his own hand over John's where it cupped his cheek. He turned his face slightly until his lips rested in John's palm. Not a kiss, just touch. Contact. Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"Always." A promise whispered into John's skin, Sherlock's lips and warm breath grazing softly over his palm as the word took form. 

"Stay," John said softly. The very request Sherlock had asked of him, not two nights ago. But this time was different. John meant here, in his room. Not at the flat, but in John's bed.

Sherlock opened his eyes again. Reflecting pools, deep and dark on his face. He nodded once, releasing John's hand. 

John took the lead, lying back first and bringing Sherlock down with him in his arms. Sherlock's head rested on John's chest and John stroked his back soothingly. 

He didn't know what any of it meant. At least, not to Sherlock. But for now, both men appeared to be satisfied, comfortable. Sherlock draped a bony arm over John's stomach and nestled in closer. His curls near John's face smelled of expensive shampoo and cologne. 

Elated as he'd never been, John thought he might float away if not for the dead weight of the man he loved keeping him tethered to the bed. 

"Good night," John said quietly.

Sherlock was already adrift in slumber and John kissed the crown of his head, breathing deeply. He wanted to remember every perfect little detail about the night he promised the rest of his life to Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You gave me purpose. Friendship. I was alone and you... you saved me.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The room was dim but for the pale yellow glow of John's bedside lamp. 

_John._

His breaths were steady, deep. His body relaxed. Asleep, then.

Sherlock had not slept. He'd closed his eyes when John held him. He'd controlled his breathing when John kissed the top of his head. He'd willed his body to stillness as John stroked his back. But sleep? No. Sherlock may never again sleep, least of all tonight. His brain was far too busy cataloging all the new sensations of this intimacy. The heat of John's body against his and how they fit together. The serene cadence of John's heartbeats compared to Sherlock's own accelerated pulse. 

_"I mean it. I'm here. If you want me. Always."_

Always. How could the small word effect him so?

Sherlock tucked away the sound of it on John's tongue securely into his Mind Palace. He pressed his lips together in attempt to stifle his emerging smile.

Such weight in two syllables. An oath. A promise. And John was nothing if not loyal. Sherlock knew John meant to keep that promise. He meant to stay by Sherlock. Well, in that moment he meant it. Time makes fools of us all. 

Of course, Sherlock too had long ago decided he wanted to remain with John. Two years in death had sparked that revelation, that desire, and he was not yet time's fool. Only now in John's bed did Sherlock consider what that revelation might actually mean for them. If only the universe didn't keep trying to kill him, he mused. Sherlock slowly lifted his head from John's chest to steal a glance at his flatmate/best friend/question mark. The amber emanating from the lamp fell upon the harsh lines of John's sleeping face, softening them. Sherlock thought of his returned promise, just a few short hours ago near-kissed into the palm of John's hand, that he too would be there. Always. He licked his bottom lip reflexively. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, reveling in the comfort of John's warmth against his face. He didn't dare move too much, though he longed to run fingertips over the threads of John's shirt. To write meaningless words into the skin beneath that John would never understand.

Quietly peeling himself away from John's sleeping form, he retreated from the bedroom and slipped away for a cigarette. Just one. It wouldn't do to start up again with Lizzie in the flat. But tonight, well... there might not be enough nicotine patches in the box for a night like this.

Downstairs in the darkened sitting room Sherlock pushed aside curtains and cracked a window. The lighter snapped and crackled, and he took that first long drag. The familiar burn in Sherlock's throat was gorgeous. The cigarette between his fingers like a missing limb restored. 

Sherlock considered once again the fortuity of the universe. Little more than a month ago he was exiled on a suicide mission for murdering Charles Augustus Magnussen, yet here he was with John Watson. On that plane he had mourned the loss of his world, his work, of John and Mary and a baby he was certain to never meet. But tonight, Sherlock was alive in every sense. The weight of this was not lost on him.

_"The universe is rarely so lazy."_

Another drag. Sherlock blew out the white cloud at the night's sky, his muscles relaxing in the exhale. 

It had occurred to Sherlock that John's affections had grown amorous in nature, perhaps done so long ago. His own affections certainly had. However, a small, persistent voice inside his head had been convincing that his interpretation of John's actions was mere wishful thinking. That John wouldn't. And yet...

_"You never have to be alone. Not again."_

John's words, his touch. 

_"Have you really never been in any sort of relationship?"_

How he'd grasped Sherlock's hand.

_"It's all fine, remember?"_

Another drag. Too fast, too deep. Burning, coughing. Pain.

"Damn," Sherlock rasped quietly to his cigarette. He flicked it out over the window ledge, the ashes catching in the wind and then gone forever. 

It was one thing to _want_ John. It was a state to which he was accustomed. It was another to be wanted in return. Unrequited. Sherlock had resigned himself to that, had expected it, prepared for it. Especially after the appearance of Mary. He hadn't considered a scenario, not seriously anyway, in which John felt the same.

What did one do now? John would need to talk about it, though he was as rubbish at that sort of thing as Sherlock. Perhaps with a bit of handiwork they could forgo the talking a little while longer. Sherlock had more than his fair share of distractions during his cases already. Between Moriarty's presumed copycat and Mrs. Harris' missing child, he had his work cut out. Plus loads more cases had gone unread in his inbox.

Sherlock recalled John's lips in his hair. How John had kissed the top of his head, thinking Sherlock asleep. He wanted more of that. Definitely. In time.

A final drag on the cigarette before extinguishing. The glow dimmed and Sherlock wafted the air around him, waving smoke out of the window and away from Lizzie's things. He regarded the room. A soft yellow baby blanket crossed the arm of his chair. A pacifier lay forgotten on the mantle. John's coat hung near Sherlock's. Two mugs on the table where just days ago there had been one. Evidence of life. Evidence of domesticity. Of family. 

_"You never have to be alone. Not again."_

Sherlock shut the window and rested his forehead against the cold pane. "Nor you, John," he whispered, breath fogging the glass.

_Right, then. Best get to work._

No sleep tonight.

\---

John awoke with a start to an empty bed and a crying baby.

"Alright, love. It's alright." 

Elizabeth disagreed with John. It was not, in fact, alright. He climbed out of bed, limbs heavy with sleep.

The sky was sunless still, but early morning light would soon filter through clouds and into John's room. He lifted Elizabeth, soothing her until the tears dried and her sobs were no more than small hiccups.

"Where's Sherlock gone?" He wondered aloud mid nappy change. Elizabeth blinked glassy blue eyes and she sniffled in a meager response.

John recalled their previous night. How he'd pulled Sherlock into the bed with him. How Sherlock had let him, quiet and pliant, and had fallen asleep in his arms. Perhaps John had frightened him off? 

_Shit._

That wouldn't do. John couldn't let Sherlock retreat. Something was... shifting. The dynamics were changing irreversibly. He loved Sherlock, and while that knowledge was new, it wasn't something he could easily forget. Against his better judgment they were going to talk about it. Talk about _them._ It was unfair of him to expect Sherlock to simply _deduce_ John's feelings. That was cowardly. But... how did one have "the talk" with Sherlock Holmes?

"Christ." John kissed Elizabeth's forehead. "I must be mental." Elizabeth flailed an arm in confirmation. 

"Fantastic," John deadpanned.

Baby in tow, he descended the stairs to find Sherlock seated at the table, books and papers strewn about haphazardly. 

"John..." He met John's eyes with some hesitancy and quickly averted his gaze.

This was going to be awkward if John didn't clear the air soon. Best not to put it off. "Sherlock, can we ta-"

"You and Lizzie come look at this," Sherlock interjected.

"Sher-"

"Quickly, John." 

John stifled a groan. Sherlock was obviously too distracted to talk about it at the moment. Instead, John and his junior consultant crossed the sitting room to see what he was on about.

"The missing boy's things," Sherlock provided, indicating the mess on the table.

"Liam Harris." 

"Yes. Look at this." Sherlock held up a newspaper article.

"The Sun? Wait, is that -"

"Ms. Kitty Reilly's exposé article about my being a fraud, courtesy of our friend 'Richard Brook'," Sherlock sneered. "The article was stuck between two of his books. Several other articles about my suicide are in the mix as well."

"So, he knows you? Or of you. What's all that writing on it?" John crossed over to the kitchen and one-handedly prepared a bottle, Elizabeth in his other arm.

"Notes." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the scribbles. "He was fact-checking the article." 

John furrowed his brow. "A fan?"

"Yes. I should have seen it earlier," Sherlock near-growled in frustration. "Makes perfect sense. The night Mrs. Harris turned up in our flat she mentioned she didn't have our phone number or address, said she looked me up in 'the book'."

"So?" John didn't follow. "She doesn't have a computer, she said that yesterday," John recalled.

"Exactly. John, she didn't even know your name, remember? Anyone who knows my name generally knows yours."

"I suppose. So you think her son mentioned your name to her?"

"More than once, I'd wager. Remember her comment? She compared us."

_"Yes, that's him. He wants to know about everything, that boy. Like you, I suppose."_

"Of course," smiled John. "So why didn't she mention it, then? If he's such a fan. Seems somewhat relevant." He sat across from Sherlock and popped Elizabeth's bottle in her mouth. She suckled hungrily, tiny hands flapping excitedly. "Good girl."

A frown curled Sherlock's lips, his growing frustration apparent. "His mother probably _told me_ the first night we met, I was just too... distracted."

"Distracted?" What would distract Sherlock from a case?

Sherlock gave John a rather pointed look before averting his gaze completely, returning to the article.

 _Oh._

It was John. He was the distraction. It was all coming back, now. The night Mrs. Harris turned up was the same night he and Sherlock had a bit of a row. Sherlock had suddenly thought it too dangerous for John to move back in to the flat. John fought him on it. Things got heated and he confessed that his life had been... empty without Sherlock in it... and...

 _"I too know the absence your hollow creates."_

Sherlock's words made John near tingle even now. He had held John, pressed their foreheads together. They'd been achingly close. And that's precisely when Mrs. Hudson had interrupted them with Liam's mum. And John bolted from the flat.

 _Wow._ He hadn't realized Sherlock could be so effected. And by John, no less. That was equal parts flattering and baffling. They definitely should have that talk.

"John! Are you listening? I said I need you to write a blog post."

"Okay..." John attempted to regain his focus.

"Nothing suspicious, nothing about our prominent two cases. A simple update will do."

"Um, right. Well, I guess I have a few I could work on. Started a draft recently. The one about the bicyclist?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I need it quickly. Just some generic prattling. Your usual between-cases-nonsense."

John pursed his lips in mild annoyance and passed Elizabeth to Sherlock. He opened his laptop and wondered how the hell he could be so infatuated with this bastard.

"Lizzie, we'll have to teach you to type properly. Your father uses two fingers. It's quite inefficient."

"Sherlock, why am I doing this?" John inquired between taps.

"I need to confirm a suspicion and you are my blogger."

"What's your sus-"

"Hurry up, John. Concentrate." Sherlock stood abruptly, Elizabeth cradled against his chest. It was a sight John wasn't quite used to yet. That may take some time. He shook his head and returned his focus to the blog post.

Five minutes of Sherlock's incessant pacing, some texting, and his mumbling deductions to Elizabeth, John finally finished.

"Alright, done."

"Excellent, here." Sherlock returned Elizabeth to John's arms and ducked low to kiss her forehead. "I'll be back in an hour."

After a double-take, John stood. "Where are you going?" 

"Work to be done, John. Too dangerous for Lizzie." A swirl of coat, curls, and scarf and then Sherlock was gone. 

John frowned. So much for the talk.

"Probably get used to that, love," John murmured to Elizabeth. "He can't resist a dramatic exit." 

\---

"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted between gulps of coffee. "How's the baby?"

"Got your text. What did you need to show me?"

"Right, down to business." Lestrade set down his cup.

"Not another body, I assume." 

"Ah, no. But we did find some security footage. Not much to go on, but -"

"Footage of what?"

"Someone snooping around the last crime scene."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

"After we swept the scene, later that night, someone apparently got a bit curious. Probably nothing, just a kid really."

"Play it for me."

Lestrade complied. It was grainy but there was indeed a child, 17 or 18 Sherlock wagered, sneaking around, looking rather suspicious and wielding a torchlight. 

"And why wasn't there any footage of the night of the murder?"

"Property owner put it up the afternoon after we found the body and cleared the scene. Seeing as how there was a murder there, he thought he ought to have security cameras installed."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, he doesn't seem the type. Short, younger, thin, so he doesn't look all that strong to haul those bodies, unless he had help, which he may have. Pale, looks like he spends most of his time indoors, probably in front of a -" Sherlock stopped short. His brain was racing instantly. "Pause it."

_I know that face..._

"I'll need a copy of that."

"I'll email the file. What is it? You on to something?"

Sherlock flipped his coat collar and headed for the door.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's voice warned, a fatherly authoritativeness, "if you've got something, don't hold out on us. It's too dangerous for you to be playing this solo. I've seen enough dead bodies that look like you."

Sherlock stopped short at that. He glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade who was watching him rather gravely. "It's something different. That's not your murderer. Don't worry." Sherlock nodded reassuringly and disappeared from Lestrade's office as quickly as he'd arrived.

\---

**Our missing boy just turned up on security footage. -SH**

**Really? Where'd you get the video?**

**Lestrade. Apparently he was snooping about our latest murder scene. -SH**

**What? Wait. What's Liam got to do with the dead bodies? Is he the murderer?**

**Unlikely. -SH**

**So why would he be there?**

**We'll have to ask him that. -SH**

Sherlock hailed a cab. After a few minutes delay, John responded.

**You coming home?**

So, perhaps John and Lizzie _could_ have joined him at the station. He'd known it wouldn't be a body, after all, as Lestrade had called him from the Yard and not a murder scene. But, if Sherlock were entirely honest with himself, he'd just wanted them to think. He wanted to think, and more importantly, he wanted John to think. He wanted John to have a little space and time to consider if this, whatever it may be, was really something he desired. Funny, that. How Sherlock had so wished for John's affection and now, in the face of it, backpedaled. Frankly, he wanted to give John an out. 

**In a bit. Going back to the murder scenes. Perhaps Mrs. Harris' son left us a clue as to his whereabouts. -SH**

There. That should give them some time. And something to occupy his own brain. The work. The work is what matters right now. His phone pinged once more.

**Dinner tonight?**

\---

It was just two words. A question John had asked a thousand times. A question Sherlock had asked near as many. Why was it taking so bloody long to respond? Sherlock always responds. To everything. He was headed to those murder scenes, but he couldn't have been there yet. Not likely he was in any trouble. He was probably ignoring the text. In fact, he was definitely doing that. He'd gone to the Yard this morning. For a video. Something that Lestrade could have easily emailed. Sherlock was clearly avoiding him. The man didn't want to leave the flat, much less put on pants, for Buckingham Palace. 

"Jesus." John sighed as he picked up Elizabeth. "Your godfather is an enigma. And a pain in the arse." He kissed her cheek. "But we love him," he continued between kisses, "don't we?" It was odd sort of relief to verbalize it, but John was certain his secrets were safe with his daughter.

And then, as if in comfort of her poor father's dilemma, Elizabeth smiled. A drooling, wet smile and John was smart enough to know it wasn't a social smile. It was a bit early for that, but it was her first all the same.

"Oh my god! You smiled! Elizabeth! You smiled at me! Sher-" John jumped up, but stopped himself. Sherlock wasn't there. He wasn't there to share this moment. He'd missed her first smile. "God. Mrs. Hudson!" John needed _somebody_ to share this with. "Mrs. Hudson!" 

Clapping heels resounded outside the doorway and John darted toward the top of the stairwell, Elizabeth in tow. "She's smiled! It was her first smile, Mrs. H!"

"Oh, how lovely! Did you smile for your father?" She beamed at Elizabeth, who had apparently exhausted her smile quota for the day and instead squirmed indifferently in John's arms, cooing softly. 

"Come on, Elizabeth, show Mrs. Hudson. Smile for us." 

She grunted and flapped a fist instead.

"Aw, come on love, give us a smile," he coaxed again.

"Don't worry, dear. There will be plenty more smiles to come. She'll be full of them," Mrs. Hudson patted John's shoulder.

"I s'pose you're right."

"Has Sherlock gone out?" 

"Uh. Yes. Yeah, gone to a crime scene. Too dangerous for us."

"How about a cuppa, dear?" Her eyes were almost pitying.

"Mmm, lovely."

John checked his phone again with a sigh. Nothing. No response. He sat heavily in his chair and bounced Elizabeth gently.

"John? What's the matter, dear?" Mrs. Hudson set the kettle to boil and busied herself tidying up the flat. As not-housekeepers do.

"Hm? Oh. Nothing." John tucked away his phone quickly.

"Have you thought about a sitter? So you could keep up with Sherlock?"

"Yes, well. I have. Not sure where to start, though. And our schedule is quite erratic. Never know when there will be a case or how long we'd be gone out. Not sure what to put in the ad, really."

"Well I could help out, dear. If you're ever in a bind."

John shook his head immediately. "No, no. I can't ask that."

"Oh, don't be silly," Mrs. Hudson set down John's tea. "I think between a sitter and the three of us, we can manage this little one," she hummed over Elizabeth and plucked her from John's arms.

John watched as Mrs. Hudson tittered sweetly over her Elizabeth. In so many ways, she was like a mother to John. And without any kids of her own, he supposed Elizabeth was as close to a grandchild as Mrs. H would have. Of course, John's parents died several years ago and with Mary's unknown origins, it seemed likewise Mrs. Hudson would be as close to a grandparent as Elizabeth could have. 

John smiled, awash in contentment and gratitude. In that moment, John couldn't imagine a more loving home for his daughter to grow up in.

His phone's alert rang out. _Sherlock._ John couldn't get the phone out of his pocket quickly enough.

 _Oh..._ Just comments on the new blog post. Disappointment weighed his chest heavily. He tapped out a text to Sherlock. It's not that he was eager to have an excuse to text again. Sherlock _told_ John to let him know if there was any activity on the blog. So... yeah. It was business, obviously. It was important and definitely not just...

His phone pinged again, mere seconds after pressing send. 

**Fantastic. Thanks for the update. -SH**

"Son of a..." John grumbled. Mrs. Hudson covered Elizabeth's ear. John bit the inside of his cheeks, suppressing his frustration. Was the "fantastic" a response about dinner? Was Sherlock just ignoring the dinner text altogether? Now if he asked him to clarify it might seem odd. Christ, he was too old for this. He felt like an awkward schoolboy with a crush. 

"John, is everything alright?" 

"Mrs. Hudson, are you sure you're up to watching Elizabeth?" 

"Oh, it's fine dear."

"Great. I've got to run out." John fetched his jacket with purpose and kissed his daughter and not-housekeeper goodbye.

\---

Sherlock sat in the back of a cab and scrolled through the comments on John's blog. Nope. No. No. Nope. No. Nothing. No.

No sign of him. 

He typed out a post on his own blog: "Missing laptop owned by one L. Harris. Please return to 221b Baker Street immediately. Your improbable secret is safe with us."

A smirk graced Sherlock's lips as the new message posted.

Now. What to do about dinner with John? A small gift? Is that appropriate? Perhaps it was too soon for that sort of formality. Sherlock wasn't even certain this was a _date_. He'd really hoped to get more time and space between them than a handful of hours, but the more he thought about last night, the more anxious he became to return to John. Fear of the unknown or not.

\---

The door to 221B closed with a loud thud. John had barely turned around before near-trampling a dark-clad brunette. 

"Jesus. Sorry. I -" he stopped short. It was Anthea. "Oh." He glanced sideways, an ominously black car was parked in front of the flat.

Anthea smiled expectantly between texts and John sighed, turning toward the car. No point in arguing.

"Mycroft really could just call once in a while," he complained. 

\---

"John," greeted Mycroft coolly. He gestured to the seat across from him. John hadn't been to the Diogenes Club since... well. Since _before_. He seemed to be doing that a lot since Sherlock's return. Marking his life in two halves. Before Sherlock's fall and after.

"Mycroft," he smiled. "How can I help you?" John knew there was a favor or a case or both, as if those two things were mutually exclusive. And Mycroft was hardly one to make small talk. 

"John, we need to discuss my brother." 

_Shocking..._

"I need you to keep Sherlock on task in regard to Moriarty. I realize my brother has other cases, but the Moriarty matter is of utmost importance. It _must_ take precedence."

"Yes, well he does have a few other cases. One in particular that's taken up some of his attention. But he hasn't forgotten about it. I'll do what I can to -"

"I don't think you understand the gravitas of this matter," Mycroft interjected solemnly.

John raised an eyebrow. He sat back in the chair a bit, pursing his lips, suddenly strangely uncomfortable. What was this all about? 

"Care to enlighten me?" John asked after a pause.

"I understand Sherlock may not have fully disclosed the details of his exile for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Let me be clear. It is imperative that this matter with Moriarty is solved by Sherlock, expeditiously and succinctly. He -"

"Sorry. What do you mean he didn't...? Undercover work in Eastern Europe. That's what he said." John could recall the smell of the tarmac and still hear the roar of the jet engine. The wind had whipped by and through him, chilling him to the bone. Sherlock had shaken John's hand, a gesture reserved for acquaintances, not best friends. And certainly not best friends who could no longer live in the same country. John had meant to pull him into an embrace, hug him, remind Sherlock they would always be the best of friends even with distance between them. Perhaps he and Mary could visit. But he hadn't. He'd stupidly shaken Sherlock's hand and said none of those things.

"Was he not... was he not going to Europe? Where was he really going, Mycroft?" John had been lied to once again, hadn't he? His jaw clenched.

"Eastern Europe. Yes, that was true. However, he failed to mention the job would likely... prove fatal to him." Mycroft sipped the drink in his hand, a slight tremor in his grip. "I estimated in about -" 

_"Six months time, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."_

Something deep within John gripped tightly, suddenly. Icy, sharp, dark. He felt sick, horrified as the reality of this information dawned. Mycroft was still talking, but it seemed far off. Underwater, like John was drowning.

"A suicide mission." John rasped. He cleared his throat, a small groan escaping him as he tried to temper his emotions. He couldn't meet Mycroft's eye-line just yet.

"Yes," Mycroft replied. The ice clinked as he set his glass down, a noise that seemed unusually loud, disruptive in the quiet of the room. 

John focused on the glass, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily through his nostrils. When he at last raised his eyes to meet Mycroft's, surely there was fire behind them. Or blackness. Or hate. For Mycroft pulled back slightly, subtly, but as though preparing for an assault from John.

"You... you sent your brother to be..." John could hardly finish the sentence. Could hardly think it. Inconceivable, incomprehensible. "You..."

"John," Mycroft began.

"And he knew. He _knew_ and he didn't..." The horror of this realization was subsiding temporarily for an intense anger bubbling, boiling over. He forcibly released his grip on the arms of his chair where his nails dug in painfully.

"He knew, and I had no choice in the matter. At least this way, rather than prison -"

"Don't," John interjected. He was standing now, gait unsteady, over Mycroft. "Don't. Once again, I was left in the dark. Once again -" he inhaled deeply. It was two years ago all over. It was the fall from St. Barts. Only this time... John exhaled and Mycroft stood, a bit more guarded, cautious, than before. 

"I understand your feelings, John."

"Ha!" The word, not a real laugh to be sure, burst from John abruptly, bitingly. " _You_ understand?" He grit his teeth, shaking his head. "You couldn't _possibly_. You and him, you both just decide to leave me in the bloody dark. Lie to me for years. Make me watch...watch him... watch him _die_." Tears threatened and a knot in John's throat complicated proper communication, but he couldn't stop. Not this time. "And then you send him off to be killed without so much as-"

"A lie of kindness," Mycroft suggested, his voice softer than before.

"What?" John could feel himself smiling, but there was no happiness in it. It was a smile that warned. "A kindness? How was it kind to lie to me?"

"John, I think you'll find my brother was less interested in lying to you and more interested in _protecting_ you." 

"Which time?"

" _Every_ time."

John stepped back slightly as if struck. 

_"I will never stop protecting you!"_ Sherlock's voice boomed inside him.

"Perhaps you should have this conversation with -"

John grabbed his coat without so much as a goodbye. His fist bunched the material tightly, having not even put the blasted thing on as he stormed from Downing Street and hailed a cab. 

A text awaited him in his pocket. 

**Back at Baker Street. Takeaway, or are we going out? -SH**

\---

Sherlock cradled Lizzie's head against his chest, speaking in low, measured tones as he recounted the day's events to her. He'd relieved Mrs. Hudson of babysitting duties and now the pair of them were stretched out on the sofa, awaiting John's return.

"Perhaps your father went for a takeaway, or a bottle of wine. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if this is a date or merely an opportunity to corner me into talking about 'feelings'." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Which he doesn't actually _want_ to do and is entirely rubbish at, by his own self admission." He smiled, studying Lizzie's noble battle against the baritone of his voice, the sound of which was rapidly lulling her to sleep. Or perhaps it was the vibrations of his chest as he spoke, or how he tenderly stroked her hand between his thumb and forefinger. Most likely it was his warmth and her ear against his chest, hearing the sounds of his body at rest and his heart thumping, all of which likely mimicked a womb-like environment. Sherlock would need to isolate the variables, testing them one by one to find which was most effective in getting her to nap. And he would have done, if he hadn't been so very contented in watching her glassy blue eyes disappear and reappear and then disappear again behind heavy eyelids as she struggled to keep awake. He couldn't spare anything else any attention.

After many long minutes of Sherlock humming and whispering secrets to Lizzie and stroking her back, she slept. A small wet pool darkened his shirt where her tiny mouth met the fabric, but he didn't mind. He'd had worse through experiments gone wrong. Far worse. 

He pressed his nose to the crown of Lizzie's head. Her distinct "new baby scent" was fleeting, dissipating a little more with each passing day, but Sherlock could still smell it. With some despondency, he considered he would miss the scent once truly gone. He shut his eyes, drinking in the moment. The gurgles, the soft breaths and sweet, subtle scent of his Lizzie.

John's footfall on the stairs thundered, piercing the serenity of the flat.

"Sherlock!" His voice was - oh, he was _angry._

"Shhh!" He hushed John, a palm over Lizzie's exposed ear. Sherlock was facing the doorway, still lying back on the sofa with Lizzie napping atop his chest.

John stopped short and winced, hesitant to wake his daughter regardless of his apparent rage. Sherlock cupped her gently, sitting up slowly so as not to disturb her. He crossed the room, pushing his chair flush against John's and swaddled her in his scarf, lowering her gently into their chairs. He backed away tacitly.

John was glowering at him when he turned around. "In here," he whispered and marched towards Sherlock's room. 

Sherlock followed hesitantly but obediently. He'd obviously done something to upset John, but for the life of him he hadn't a clue. Perhaps it was the delay in responding to his dinner inquiry? Had he left parts of an experiment near Lizzie's things? Sherlock scanned the depths of his Mind Palace for something, _anything_. Now in Sherlock's room, John closed the door behind them. 

"John?"

"Just. Don't." John was pacing a bit, stalking was perhaps a more accurate description. He stopped and turned on his heel to face Sherlock. "You lied to me. Again."

Sherlock's brain hastened. What had he lied about? What had John _so_ upset? He could see John's chest heaving, his fists clenched.

"Undercover work. Eastern Europe. You _knew_ it wasn't... you knew you were..." John swallowed, his jaw tense. 

Sherlock cringed instantly.

"Damn Mycroft."

"No," John said darkly. "No, damn _you._ "

"John, I only wanted -"

"I know. I know what you wanted. I know why." John's eyes glistened and he swallowed again. "But damn you anyway. Damn you for jumping off that building and making me watch. Damn you for not telling me about that suicide mission. And," John stopped for a breath, "and damn you for shooting Magnussen in the first place."

Sherlock looked away. John's words were a bit more stinging than he cared to admit.

"But mostly," John exhaled heavily, "damn me for never telling you all the things I should have."

 _What?_

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together as John stepped forward, diminishing their heated distance. His eyes still glistened, threatening tears and Sherlock could hardly stand to see it.

"You come into my life," John choked on the words. "Change _everything_. You gave me purpose. Friendship. I was alone and you... you saved me. And then you jumped off bloody Bart's and took it all back with you. You didn't..." John breathed heavily through his nose, "you didn't even know you were my best friend. Because I didn't say it."

"John..." He looked unsteady and Sherlock wanted desperately to hold him.

"I need you to know that I'm in love with you."

Sherlock's heart thrummed in his ears. His face felt hot, his mouth dry. Blinking, he parted his lips, but no words came. They were so close. Their bodies just centimeters apart now. The words echoed, symphonic and clear. 

"You don't have to say anything. I just need you to know. We don't all get second chances to say the things we should." He glanced away, anguish apparent on his face. "Maybe if I had told you sooner..."

"No, John." Sherlock shook his head solemnly. "Don't. You couldn't have changed anything. What could you have done? Followed me on a suicide mission? Abandon your family?" 

John's head dropped a bit in concession. 

"Of course not," said Sherlock softly.

He pressed a trembling hand to John's cheek. And John, who was so evidently at war with himself, met his eyes with such grief, such guilt, obviously knowing Sherlock was correct - he couldn't, wouldn't have abandoned Mary and the baby. Not his loyal, honorable John.

"I'm sorry I kept the truth from you. I just-" Sherlock paused for a shaky breath, dropping his palm from John's cheek. "I couldn't put you through it, again." He lowered his face, forehead pressing to John's. "But please believe, my dearest friend," his lips curled into a demure, gentle smile, "that against all logic, I too am in love."

The words were barely off Sherlock's lips as John caught them with his own. His eyes widened in surprise and then fluttered closed as John pressed their mouths softly together. Thought escaped him. It was blur, warmth, pleasure, and Sherlock's brain did not race, but floated. Peaceful acquiescence to a moment of pure bliss, as John Watson extracted from him all ability to reasonably function.

"John..." The name was little more than a breath between them. Sherlock's arms encircled John, closing the fractional gap that had remained. They couldn't be near enough. He wanted to hold John there in place, keep him. Consume him.

The two men clutched one another, mouths expressing what their voices could not, and clinging as if the other might disappear. Languid kisses, alluring and gentle were shared. Indulgent murmurs of adoration escaped their lips. John grasped at Sherlock's collar and Sherlock captured John's bottom lip between his, palms spread wide over John's back. Years of waiting, pining, hurt, love, regret all concentrated into this, this physical culmination of all their words unspoken and all their chances untaken. 

"Don't leave me again," John breathed tremulously, lips parted over Sherlock's. "Please. Promise me." John pleaded through kisses, desperation in his throat.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, lifting his head. He was near-dizzy with elation, face and ears fevered. John opened damp, glassy eyes, lips pink and pupils slightly dilated. His chest heaved a bit as he attempted to control his breathing. He was beautiful.

How could Sherlock promise such a thing? To say "always" again and again, to promise never to leave. Such pledges in moments of passion didn't seem reasonable. How could they know the future? He didn't _want_ to leave. Not ever. But Sherlock would do anything to protect John and Lizzie, even if it meant leaving them for their own safety.

And yet, in his room, with John in his arms and confessions of love on their tongues, Sherlock could not deny him two simple words.

He lifted John's chin, a free hand carding through blonde and grey hair. "I promise."

And he meant to keep it.

The heat of their encounter had cooled some. John sighed, relief, and possibly embarrassment, apparent. A nervous grin broke across their faces, the little bit of adrenaline dwindling as the distinct sound of nothingness thickened the air. Their bodies drifted gradually apart, though they remained intimately close, fingers entwined.

"Elizabeth smiled today," John announced quietly after a moment, a hint of pride.

"Really? Already?" _Damn._ Excitement, but an immediate punch of disappointment. Sherlock had missed the first smile.

"Well, not a social one."

"Of course not. Obviously." Sherlock feigned nonchalance.

"You should add it to your spreadsheet," grinned John. An obvious attempt to soften the blow. 

A successful attempt, all the same.

"Oh, yes!" Excitement brimmed again and Sherlock darted around John and out of his bedroom to his laptop.

"Cor, I'm old news already," John teased as he followed behind towards the sitting room. 

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock sat at the table, fingers clicking away as he updated his spreadsheet of Lizzie's progress. John stooped behind him and read over his shoulder.

"Sorry you missed it."

"As am I," Sherlock admitted. "But I don't intend to miss the next one. Or anything else of importance, if possible." 

John rested his palm on Sherlock's shoulder. The contact, though simple, was nice. Comfortable, even. "So, dinner then?" John squeezed his shoulder gently, thumb stroking the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

Before Sherlock could answer, a familiar resound of heels clapping on the stairs disrupted.

"Perhaps not," said Sherlock, standing to face the door. 

_It must be him. Finally._

"Woohoo!" Mrs. Hudson peeked in. "Client," she smiled, ushering in a young man and shutting the door behind her.

The thin, pale boy stood uncomfortably by the doorway, shifting his weight from side to side. His chestnut brown hair was rather unkempt and his clothes similarly so. He was on the short side. A duffel bag hung from his right shoulder and in his arms he carried a black laptop.

"Well. I see you got my message," Sherlock addressed the boy coolly.

The boy nodded stiffly in return.

John picked up Lizzie from their chairs, his eyes darting between Sherlock and the boy. 

"Uh, sorry. Who's this?" John inquired.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't I say? Liam, you're familiar with Dr. John Watson." Sherlock glanced at John, unable to repress his self-satisfaction. "John, this is Liam Harris."

"Liam? Mrs. Harris' son? How...when..." he stammered, confusion apparent.

"Apologies," Sherlock smirked, "You know him of course by another name. From your blog, in fact. John, I'd like you to formally meet our devoted fan, and, incidentally, the young man responsible for thwarting my exile: 'theimprobableone'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST THING'S FIRST: If you have been following this story, please let me apologize. I have been so disgustingly delayed in getting this chapter finished. I'm a full-time student and have a lot of other "life stuff" plus some anxieties and bouts of depression, all of which has severely disrupting me lately in all aspects of life, not merely this story. Then it became a vicious cycle. I had gone so long without an update that I had convinced myself no one would want to read it anymore. Or that the update wouldn't be good enough - that people would say, "We waited all that time for THIS?" 
> 
> So thank you to anyone who may read this after such a long delay, I'm sorry, again. That said, I promise I won't give up on this story. Writing it gives me relief from the world, I just can't always afford to indulge in that relief. 
> 
> Now, time for the real notes...
> 
> LEGIT CHAPTER NOTES:  
> Okay, so for those of you that follow [John's Blog](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/) closely, you will have noticed the involvement of **theimprobableone** in a [particular case.](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/23may) Furthermore, if you had read all his comments throughout John's blog, you will have noticed his total and complete fanboyish devotion to Sherlock and his total devastation at the possibility that Sherlock might have been a fraud.
> 
> If you didn't read the blogs/comments, "theimprobableone" is a huge Sherlock fan and consistent commenter on John's blog. He also followed Sherlock's blog when it was actually active. At any rate, Sherlock asks him to help out on a case requiring some hacking/computer skills in an investigation. We are never given any indication that they actually met TIO only that he provided the information necessary to cracking the case. After Sherlock's apparent suicide, TIO apparently falls into a bit of depression, questioning whether or not he should have believed in Sherlock at all. John assures him to keep believing. And upon Sherlock's return, he is overjoyed and happily commenting again.


End file.
